


After the Fall

by Edhla



Series: After the Fall [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-24
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-19 09:23:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 49,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/571738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edhla/pseuds/Edhla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock, lying low from Moriarty's network, is forced to rely on Mycroft. Molly finds love; John finds love that he isn't afraid of. Lestrade is faced with a series of shocking murders, a bitter divorce, and a struggle to reconnect with his teenage children. Season 3 AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was after the death; after the funeral. After the inquest and even after the suspension, which seemed to have gone on forever. It was a Thursday, overcast and cold, though it was still September. And in the lobby of New Scotland Yard, a woman was waiting to see Detective Inspector Lestrade.

Detective Inspector Gregory Peter Lestrade was a lot of different names to a lot of different people. He was Boss. He was Sir. He was Guv. He was Mate. He was Dad. He was Son. To Julie, he'd once been Darling and was now Greg. Generally, he was used to answering to 'Lestrade'.

Mary Elizabeth Hooper was just plain Molly. She was waiting for him at the front desk, beyond which no unauthorised people ever went; up from Barts on her lunch break. She had a cheese and ham sandwich in a clear plastic box tucked up in one hand, and Lestrade, who was yet to go on _his_ lunch break, thought it may just have been the most pathetic and depressing sandwich he'd ever seen in his life. Her hair had once held a braid. You could always tell the time by Molly Hooper's hair; she came in to work neat and in order, but after about three hours her hair always escaped its bounds and made her look like she'd been caught up in some sort of localised tornado.

"Molly. What can I do for you?"

Over his shoulder he felt, rather than saw, the desk sergeant glaring at him. She clearly thought he had better things to be doing than talking personal business to a woman in a pink knitted jumper and plaid trousers, and to be fair, it was true. Though technically back at work, he'd been bumped so far down the first-response list that he'd spent a solid week doing nothing but processing paperwork, both his own and other people's. Paperwork was not Greg Lestrade's idea of a satisfying work day. He almost wished that Molly had some sort of horrific crime to report, just to liven things up.

She seemed in no great hurry to begin, and he knew from experience that if he pressed her in public she may well turn and walk out again in humiliation. He ushered her into a nearby vacant office and shut the door behind them, turning on the fluorescent lights and waiting for them to flicker to life. The room was frigid, and obviously hadn't seen sunlight in a long time. To save the awkward pause, he went over and twitched the blinds open. "Molly... Listen, um, we're kind of slammed just now -" This was a lie, as the only slamming anyone was doing upstairs was Thompson slamming the photocopier. "Is this something that can wait?"

Without waiting for an answer, he turned back to face her. She was standing in the middle of the room like a guilty suspect, wringing her hands. "I was just wondering," she managed to get out, brown eyes so dilated they were nearly black, "if you've heard from John lately?"

Lestrade groaned in spirit. _Should have seen that one coming._  "Quite recently," he said, gesturing for her to sit down. "He's okay."

"Oh, um, good." Molly ignored the chair he'd pointed to. "He... was upset the last time I saw him. Listen, I was wondering, if it's okay, if you could tell me where he is, what he's up to?"

 _Definitely saw that one coming._ "I really can't," he said, folding his arms. "If John doesn't want anyone and everyone to know where he is, it's really not my place to go giving out his address. I can tell him where _you_ are, if you want."

"Has he said he doesn't want to see me?"

"No." Lestrade decided not to clarify that over the last few weeks, he'd not known John to refer to Molly in any way, shape or form. "But he's still licking his wounds, Molly. Not operating on that level right now. Now what I'll do is, I'll give him your contact details, and -"

"You've given him my contact details."

"Oh?"

"Months ago. He hasn't contacted me. Not once since the inquest."

"Well, I can't exactly make him. I'll let him know you asked about him..." Lestrade sighed. "Molly, he's okay. Really. And I'm sure he'll be back on the radar once he gets through this whole… thing."

Lestrade still struggled to refer to the death of Sherlock Holmes. Clearly, Molly did too.

"Before he - the night before he - I promised Sherlock..." She swallowed hard. "I promised I'd keep an eye on John. He asked me to. I'm supposed to, aren't I? I mean, when you make a promise to someone, you have to at least _try_ , and now that..."

Detective Inspector Lestrade was equipped to deal with all manner of gory crimes and sadistic criminals. What he didn't feel equipped to deal with was Molly Hooper, about to burst into tears.

"You _do_ know he's going to kill me for this." He pulled out his phone and started searching through the menu with one thumb. "Right. You got something to write this down with, or do you want me to text it to you? If he asks, you didn't get this from me."

* * *

It was nearly eight o'clock that evening before Molly was able to make it to the address Lestrade had given her. There had been no answer on the mobile phone for months, and Lestrade didn't think there was a landline. She found a dingy flat in a quiet backstreet, where foxes still foraged in bins under the weak haloes of halogen street lamps, and other things more sinister rustled among the weeds clumping against the boundary fences. Inside the flat, the lights were on, but all was quiet behind the door and it was a minute or two after knocking before she heard the clink of a security chain and the door opened.

Molly didn't know what she expected on seeing John Watson for the first time since the inquest. What she didn't expect is that he would look so… normal. Utterly normal. Not a man in the depths of despair at all; a man who had got up that morning and had a shower and brushed his teeth and shaved and put clean clothes on. He may have lost a little weight, and was soon going to be in need of a haircut. Clean and neat. Looked very tired.

By this time she was staring at him.

"Molly. Hi... sorry," he said, face twitching briefly into what was meant to be a polite smile and didn't quite make it. "Come in."

Although it was getting late, John was still fully dressed, including his shoes and jacket. After three seconds in the flat, she got an idea as to why: it was easily as cold inside as it was out. He went over to the radiator and started fussing with it, muttering something about it being defective and that he was going to speak to the landlord about it.

So far, she thought, he'd barely registered who it was, and hadn't really looked at her.

"Tea?" he suggested mildly. "I'll make tea."

Before she could reply, he ushered her into a chair - the only chair in the whole flat, and one so rickety she was nervous about sitting on it. She took the chance to look around as he fussed around the kitchenette. There wasn't much to see. A bedsit - hideous brown floral wallpaper, and orange carpet dating from the mid seventies. The curtains had plastic backing, like they belonged to the bathroom. They might have once, she thought. They had jagged tears in places and were spotted with mold, though the rest of the place was in spotless order. A bitter reek of old damp pervaded the carpet; four decades worth of leaks and drips could not be remedied by a simple cleaning job. Aside from the single chair and tiny table, there wasn't much else in the room but a forlorn-looking, narrow bed in the opposite corner, so close that she could almost have reached out and touched it. She didn't think it had enough warm bedclothes on it - not for her tastes, anyway. But maybe the ex-soldier didn't feel the cold like she did.

When John brought her cup over he sat on the bed, since there were no other chairs. He hadn't made anything for himself. There was a good half a minute of awkward silence, broken only by the clink of the spoon against the cup as Molly stirred her tea. "So," she said, trying to speak brightly. "Not seen you in a while."

He seemed to be considering this. "No... I guess not."

"I've missed you. I tried to call, but I think maybe you've changed your number since… I mean, I kept getting no answer, that's all."

"No, well. I… uh."

Molly had the right number, and had never really thought she had the wrong one. She flushed in embarrassment; not only her embarrassment, but John's. He was looking at the carpet, the ceiling, a nearby lamp and just about everything available to him except her face.

"How've you been keeping, John?"

It was the wrong thing to say, or perhaps the wrong tone. If anything, the room suddenly became even colder. "Fine," he said. "I'm fine."

That was Thursday. On Friday, Molly dropped in to see John on her way back from a grocery trip, bringing a few random items. The wrong thing, again, but she left satisfied that she'd sooner have John offended than going without basics like coffee. On Saturday morning he wasn't at home, which gave her pause: Mike's? Harry's? The cemetery...? Sunday she was at Baker Street to see Mrs Hudson; Sunday night she was back at John's with a casserole she'd been instructed to give him. He was offended, but he accepted it. Monday was a busy day and she did not make it out to the little bedsit. Tuesday evening she came back, making sure that Mrs Hudson's as-yet untouched casserole was actually served and eaten. Wednesday she brought more groceries. John made tea for both of them this time.

Thursday night she did not go to the flat. She had an important errand.

* * *

If Molly looked strange and out of place at New Scotland Yard she looked absurd at the Diogenes Club, amid velvet carpet and mahogany fixtures. As if aware of this, she spent barely a minute under the pitiless glare of the electric chandeliers and then retreated to wait things out. She did not have to wait for long; it was only a few minutes before Mycroft was leaving. He barged through the foyer and down the steps in his usual business-like way and would have walked straight past Molly Hooper, but for one timid little plea in the darkness. "Mycroft?"

She was standing in the deep shadows next to the front steps, out of the way of the prying lights.

"Miss Hooper."

Mycroft Holmes: the only person on earth who called Molly "Miss Hooper" and, she felt, he always made her name sound like an insult. Molly had only met Mycroft a handful of times, but she found this unnerving; she found the man himself unnerving. He had always been polite to her, but he had a way of looking at her as if he could read her mind, and what he could read displeased him.

"Hello," she fumbled, pulling at her ponytail.

"How can I help you?" Evidently, 'hello' was not on Mycroft's mental list of standard greetings.

"Can I talk to you, please?"

For a second Mycroft looked as if he was going to ask Molly to make an appointment with his secretary for some time the following week. "I'm very busy at the present, Miss Hooper, is this -"

"It's urgent."

Another sigh. Mycroft was making a noble effort not to roll his eyes. "Very well," he said. "Would here suit you? We can talk in private."

It was a chilly night, and she gratefully got into the back of the car Mycroft had waiting. The chauffeur, without being asked, got out of the car and walked around to the rear as Mycroft got in and shut the door with more drama than necessary. "I assume this is -"

"Have you seen John Watson lately?"

"Ah." Mycroft seemed to consider this, examining the handle of his umbrella. "No, I haven't. We did not part on good terms."

"I've been seeing him a bit this week," she said. "I mean… not 'seeing him'… not like… listen. I think we need to help him. Did you know that he's..." She stopped herself before she could blurt out the crass word for it: _poor._ "Do you know he's... got limited means?"

"I know he has a small army pension, and a sister who is financially comfortable." Now it was Mycroft's sleeve that had become fascinating.

"Did you know there's no heating at his flat? He tried to tell me that the heater was faulty. But I checked the other day, and the stove-top doesn't work either. He's had the gas disconnected. And then there's the rent. I'm sure he -"

Mycroft made an impatient movement. "This is all very disappointing to hear, but I fail to see..."

"We need to help him."

"Why 'we'?"

"Because he needs our help. And because we both know Sherlock isn't dead."

Mycroft's pupils narrowed. In the half-light, he looked like a hunting falcon. In a burst of confidence Molly followed up her unexpected advantage. "When I said I'd help Sherlock, I didn't think... I didn't think it was going to be like this. How long am I going to have to do this for?"

"I think you know as well as I do that we're not operating on a schedule. For the present, my brother deems it necessary that he not be found by anyone, and I'm afraid that includes John Watson."

Molly strongly suspected that it was _Mycroft_ doing the deeming, not Sherlock. A schedule. Of course, it was Mycroft thinking about schedules and timetables. Molly had worked with Sherlock for four years before... all that... and if there was one thing she knew about him, it was his utter contempt for the constraints of time. "I'm sure John wouldn't tell anybody he was alive," she offered weakly.

"He wouldn't have to. The man is utterly transparent. James Moriarty was the man at the heart of a network, and that network remains. And _while_ it remains, it would not be safe for John to know anything. Anything at all."

"I didn't know -"

"You said you would help Sherlock-"

"I _did_ help Sherlock," she said with some heat.

"That wasn't an accusation." Mycroft smiled thinly, as if his face wasn't used to it, which was the case. "But it's no help to Sherlock if your indiscretion unravels everything we've worked so hard for. Nor, may I add, will it do John Watson any good."

There was a long pause. Molly met the challenge of Mycroft's gaze - it was he who broke it. She reached out for the car door, then stopped. "No, I'm going to tell him," she said.

Mycroft sucked in his breath; a dangerous, serpentine sound. "That," he said, "would be extremely ill-advised of you."

"Then do something to help! I told Sherlock I would help John -"

"Then you may have promised beyond what was in your means to carry out. A man like John Watson is difficult to 'help'." Mycroft was looking carefully at her, as if trying to gauge whether she'd really go through with her threat and whether it was necessary to make one of his own. "Nevertheless, my brother and I really are quite indebted to you," he continued. "I'll make a few discreet enquiries into John's living situation and make arrangements as necessary. You have my word on that."

The only problem with this was that Molly wasn't sure what Mycroft's word was worth. She wasn't sure what her _own_ word was worth.

"And," Mycroft continued heavily, "if you truly have Sherlock's interests at heart, you'll treat this issue with the utmost discretion. It's not only Sherlock who is at risk."

Her heart jackhammered. The most dangerous man in Britain had never been Jim Moriarty. "What do you mean?"

He gestured to the handle of the car door on her side, and somehow, she found herself reaching out for it and getting out of the car. Dismissed.

"Please," she said wretchedly.

"Oh, for God's sake, don't beg,' he said. "I told you I'd make enquiries. In the meantime, be careful, Miss Hooper."


	2. Chapter 2

"Mycroft, what the _hell_ do you think you're doing?"

Mycroft, reading a newspaper in a firelit corner of the Diogenes Club, lifted his head and was unsurprised to see John Watson making his way through the front antechamber. He was, perhaps, the only unsurprised person in the Club. In that hallowed silence, a human voice had the same impact as a gunshot elsewhere. Several other gentlemen had risen in alarm, and old Douglas in the opposite corner looked like he was going to go ahead and have that stroke he'd been threatening for the past twenty years.

"Touch me and you'll regret it," John said, without even looking at him. His tone was unmistakeable; anyone who touched him just then _would_ regret it. He stood before Mycroft, five-feet-seven-inches of barely contained fury.

Mycroft sighed and folded his newspaper twice with deliberate care. He set it on the sideboard next to his chair and sipped the last dregs of his cup of tea. Then he rose, beckoned John into one of the inner rooms and shut the door behind them.

"Charming," he remarked. "Do you generally speak that way to nonagenarians?"

"Shut up," John said. "And don't bother asking me why I'm here. Went to pay the rent today. I'm a month behind. Or at least I was, a couple of days ago. Apparently, I'm now paid up to the end of the quarter."

"Oh?"

"And I'll tell you what, my bank balance has done interesting things today, too."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Is that so? Remarkable."

"I don't want your bloody money, Mycroft!"

"Keep your voice down," Mycroft said. "You know we have rules against unnecessary noise in the Club, even in the areas where speaking is permitted. Let's not revisit that. Calm down and have a drink."

"I don't want a drink, and I don't want to keep my voice down!"

"If you _must_ learn the hard way." Mycroft shrugged, pouring a drink for him anyway. "John, this isn't charity -"

John put his face in his hands and laughed, a bitter, low sound. "Oh, my God. It _was_ you."

"In a manner of speaking. Here." Mycroft set a tumbler of cognac at John's elbow. John ignored it. "As I've been trying to tell you, this isn't charity, so there's no need to be so proud and offended about it. I'm simply fulfilling my legal obligations."

"Legal obligations?"

"My brother was a wealthy man, and I am the executor of his estate. His will stipulates that a large portion of his legacy -"

John's eyes narrowed. "Don't you dare," he seethed. "Don't you _dare_ talk to me about Sherlock…"

* * *

Mondays where Lestrade got into work to be informed of a violent disturbance at the Diogenes Club were difficult. Mondays where Lestrade arrived at the Diogenes Club to find Mycroft Holmes with a suspected broken nose, John Watson with a suspected broken hand, and half a dozen slumberous old gentlemen more scandalised than they had been since 1972, were _really_ difficult. And Mondays where Lestrade had to arrest John Watson for assault, while his victim (nasally, muffled through a bloodied tartan handkerchief) protested, but John himself demanded a cell…

Well, at least the day wasn't likely to be boring.

"What the bloody hell is _wrong_ with you two?" he demanded once he'd got both men to accompany him back to the station. Or rather, once he'd got Mycroft to accompany him, since John didn't have much choice in the matter. He'd gone quietly, though; on arrival at the Club the responding officers had found him politely waiting out front for them, with only the blood on his knuckles to account for what had happened.

"John?" he tried again. "Come on, I'm not asking you just to hear the sound of my own voice here."

John shrugged. He'd pulled his sleeve over his bloodstained hand and was staring at a spot of sunlight on the carpet some way across the room.

Lestrade got up, going to the window to stare out at nothing in particular, just to give the man a break from his gaze. Pressing him harder wasn't the right way to get a stubborn man to talk, and it wasn't going to help his blood pressure or anyone else's. Mycroft, who had been sitting in a chair near the door, rose and went over to him. By now he'd quelled his nosebleed, but still had blood smeared from his nostrils to his chin and on his pinstriped shirt.

"I really don't think this requires the intervention of the law, Inspector," he said, voice thick with his bruised sinuses.

Mycroft Holmes could have been reading a phone book aloud and it would have irritated Lestrade. Something about that smug tone. However, the man was going to show up to work tomorrow with two black eyes, and his nose was never going to be the same again, so there was that. Lestrade, for a few seconds, felt like congratulating John for belting the posh git.

"I think I'll be the judge of that," he said instead, crossing his arms in a gesture he used to show he meant business. "Being that it's my job and everything."

"All this fuss. Given the conversation John and I were having at the time, you might even say I deserved it."

Lestrade, bewildered, glanced back at John again. So far back as his memory went, the only thing Mycroft had expressed he _deserved_ was adulation for being a wealthy and well-connected genius. "He did hit you, though," he said. "You admitted it. I mean, look, I appreciate you being all… magnanimous about this -" Mycroft always brought out the inner thesaurus in people - "But John can't just go around clocking people like that."

Mycroft shrugged. "If John decides to 'clock' anyone else, then you may deal with the situation in whatever way you please," he said. "So as far as I'm concerned, there's no harm done. To myself, that is. But I suspect John may need medical attention for his hand. Broken in at least two places."

John looked up, and for a second or two Lestrade thought he was going to punch Mycroft again, broken hand or not.

* * *

"Okay, listen to me."

As it happened, Mycroft's guess had been conservative; x-rays at the local hospital had confirmed that John's hand was broken in _three_ places, though two fractures were only hairline. Lestrade had taken him home, to ensure he _went_ home and stayed there. He was now sitting on the lone chair, both hands curled harmlessly in his lap. Lestrade was making instant coffee with the same amount of aggression he'd need to fight a bear.

"Are you listening?"

"Yeah," John said defeatedly. "Yeah, I'm listening."

"You can't keep doing this." Lestrade put the hot cup in front of John, who tried to pick it up with his battered hand and switched at the last second. "I realise you're upset about... what happened. We all are. We all miss -"

"Don't."

"And I realise Mycroft gets on your nerves. God knows he gets on mine, but I've never _punched_ him. And this is the fourth person you've punched in as many months."

"It's hardly my fault I keep meeting people who deserve to be punched."

"John, I'm serious." Lestrade, unable to deliver a very convincing lecture while sitting on the bed, stood with his arms folded.

"So am I," John said. "I don't need Mycroft's money, and even if I did, I'd sooner live on the streets."

"And how close is that to happening?" Lestrade spoke quietly. He'd noted, as Molly had, how cold the room was; and he wasn't buying that the heater was faulty, either.

John shifted in his chair. "I'll manage."

"Will you?"

"Yes. _Jesus_ , not you too."

"What do you mean, me too?"

"I mean Molly Hooper's been here every day for a week and a half, treating me like an invalid. Thanks for that, Greg."

"She's worried about you," Lestrade said. "Imagine that. She means well, and she's harmless."

"So?"

"So what's your problem? If it makes her happy to do some shopping for you, you may as well let her. Anyway, won't hurt you to have company every now and then."

"I'm not suffering for lack of company," John said acidly. "God knows I'm having trouble getting some people -" by _some people,_ he meant _Harry -_ "to go away _._ Anyway, how did you know she'd been doing shopping for me?"

"As if the fact that you've got food in the flat for a change didn't give it away, she told me. And stop changing the subject. We're not talking about Molly Hooper. We're talking about how you just went and punched a man so powerful he could have you whacked and they'd never find -"

Lestrade sighed and adjusted his tone again. Best not to speak lightly about that kind of thing around John, even yet.

"He may as well have pushed Sherlock off that roof," John ground out. "And he thinks money is going to fix..."

Lestrade had never weighed in on how much he thought Mycroft was responsible for Sherlock's suicide, and he refused to be goaded into it now. "John, you're not the first person in the world to go through this," he said. "You won't be the last. You can't just go 'round hitting people at the drop of a hat."

John said nothing, but his expression conveyed _I'm pretty sure I just demonstrated that I can._

"It's not going to change anything -" _except perhaps the composition of Mycroft's face -_ "and it's not going to make you feel any better."

The side of John's mouth twitched. "I don't know, I'm feeling pretty good about it right now."

"Yeah, I guarantee you'll be hearing from your hand tomorrow, and you and Mycroft won't have got anything sorted out between you."

"I'm not interested in sorting things out between us."

"I noticed."

There was a short silence. Outside, there was a distant commotion as a group of girls made their way up the dark street, laughing and shoving one another. A shrill giggle pierced the night. From somewhere closer came the muffled sounds of a door closing and the evening news from a TV in one of the nearby flats. Lestrade noted, and not for the first time, that John didn't have a television or a stereo or any other thing to make a companionable sound on a solitary night. There was the laptop, but that was in its case and sitting neatly near the foot of the bed, and he couldn't remember when he'd last seen it open and on.

"Trust me on this." He gave in and sat down on the bed. "Just about every day, for nearly thirty years, I've had to deal with some bonehead who thinks it's okay to hit his missus, or his kids, or someone who bumps into him in the street, just 'cause he's angry. You're better than that, John."

John looked at the floor.

"And the last thing I need is my superiors wondering why I'm letting you walk when you assaulted someone. Do you know how easily simple battery can become manslaughter? All someone needs to do is fall into a table... or a glass door... and it happens more often than you'd think. You're going to end up in prison if you keep this up."

* * *

"I told you he wasn't going to take that well."

Mycroft hadn't even had a chance to shut the front door behind him before, he reflected, Sherlock was on the case. Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Nasal Fracture. _Everything_ was a potential case to Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Ignored Text. Sherlock Holmes and the Strange Case of the Leaf on the Carpet. Sherlock Holmes and the Mystery of the Dripping Tap…

"What happened?" Sherlock had been reading beside the fire in the smaller drawing room, but had stood up, his book lying on the carpet near his shoes.

"Based on the evidence at hand, I'm confident you'll be able to make a deduction." Mycroft took his jacket off, inspected it for bloodstains, hung it over the chair in the foyer, and stalked upstairs without a further word. He returned with a fresh shirt on and a clean face, pouring himself a much-needed drink from the sideboard and sitting down in the armchair. Sherlock was still standing before the fire.

"… John?"

Mycroft picked up the evening newspaper and pretended to read it for a few seconds. "Your brotherly compassion overwhelms me. No, I didn't press charges. Lestrade took him home."

Sherlock flopped down into a nearby armchair, tucking one foot underneath him and flicking the balls of his hands against the arms.

"Jean-Baptiste Bedárd," Mycroft said absently.

It was several seconds before Sherlock turned his head. "Sorry...?"

"Oh, my mistake. I thought we were playing that charming game of yours where I have to guess what you're playing in your head based on that infuriating fidgeting," Mycroft said sourly, flicking the paper in his hands. "Jean-Baptiste Bedárd. _Les Quatre Ages De L'Amour._ Bit maudlin for you, surely?"

Sherlock ignored this. "Did you tell him it was _my_ money?'

"Tried to."

"Where is it?"

"Where's what?"

"Well, if John punched you in the face _and_ took your money, I regret to inform you that you've been mugged."

Mycroft sighed, rose, and went back to his jacket pocket, retrieving his phone. "Sent it via bank transfer yesterday," he said, thumbing numbers into the keypad. "I'm not stupid enough to think he'd accept a cheque. I imagine the money's still in there, since he…"

He trailed off into a chastened sort of silence.

"… What?"

"He took the money out in person, today." Mycroft held the phone out to Sherlock, who took it. "11:28am. Every penny."

Sherlock examined the bank transaction record in silence. Then he stood up, went to the door, and reached out for his coat and scarf hanging on the stand in the corner. "Going out," he said.

"Sherlock-"

"Oh, calm down. I didn't spend so much time and effort on this just so I could _actually_ get killed."

Mycroft paused, looking Sherlock up and down, as if trying to evaluate him against something. "I want you to take the umbrella," he said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "For God's _sake_ …"

"Just for tonight, Sherlock. It's important."

"Do you know how ridiculous I look carrying an umbrella around on a fine night? Come to think of it, do you know how ridiculous _you_ look… fine." Sherlock yanked Mycroft's umbrella from its stand near the door. "Why an umbrella, anyway?" he went on, examining the spring-loaded handle. "Surely those geniuses you work with would know that a man looks suspicious when he's carrying an umbrella he has no need of. I'm surprised so few people have caught on. They must think you've got a dreadful case of hydrophobia." He moved his attention to the pointed tip, poking it. "Why not a grenade masquerading as a wallet, brother?" he asked. "Or, I don't know, a fountain pen full of nerve gas…"

"Careful with that!"

Not even dignifying this with a response, Sherlock walked out of the house, carelessly swinging the umbrella in his hand. If John Watson had been on hand he would have told him he looked like Charlie Chaplin, and been exasperated at the blank look he would have been given in return. But John Watson was not on hand. He had not been on hand for three months and six days.

It was just under half an hour later when Sherlock reached the cemetery, and well after nightfall. The cemetery gates were shut, but Sherlock scaled them like a cat, landing lightly on the hoary grass on the other side with very little sound.

The dew was already setting in; the sod beneath Sherlock's feet was spongy, and everywhere was the bitter scent of putrefaction. As a small child, Sherlock had been taken to this graveyard, and others. On one occasion, he'd asked Mummy if that smell was "somebody dead." Mummy had said no, it was when people put flowers on graves and then forgot about them until they rotted away. Much later, Sherlock was to learn that "somebody dead" smelled quite different. But he still associated that dank odour of soggy flowers with graves unvisited, with the absurdity of buying a gift for the dead which, in its turn, would also rot.

Sherlock had brought no torch, but the layout of the cemetery was very familiar to him now. The night was calm but cold, and the moon was bright. Bright enough to see, at some distance through the trees, what he expected to see.

There was a long white envelope resting on his grave.

He knew by the weight that it contained, in cash, the thousand pounds that Mycroft had put in John's bank account the day before. What he didn't know, until he was back in his room at Mycroft's and could see it properly, was that _Sherlock_ _Holmes_ was written in John's hand on the now-soggy envelope: the painstaking yet hopeless scrawl of a fastidious left-handed doctor. Inside, and tucked between the banknotes, was another note in the same hand.

_I miss you._


	3. Chapter 3

September became October; the days became even shorter and the weather more bitter. Molly still faithfully visited John at the tiny flat as often as possible, and she was not the only one. Greg Lestrade still came around as often as his hectic schedule would allow, but these were discreet visits. He'd only been back from his suspension for a few weeks, and publicly associating with John Watson was going to make things worse for himself, especially since the incident at the Diogenes Club. But John was a friend, and Lestrade wasn't about to axe a friend for professional reasons. They talked over almost anything and everything, but they never spoke about Sherlock Holmes.

Lestrade didn't talk about Sherlock with anyone. The only person who would understand was John, and John couldn't be burdened with it.

Professionally, Sherlock Holmes had never existed. Lestrade knew most of the cases Sherlock helped him with were being investigated by Internal Affairs, looking for any signs that he, Lestrade, had helped Sherlock with his alleged crimes or was corrupt in any other way. Apart from having to write up or sign the odd statement on them, he was not given any information as to how those investigations were going. His superiors were still in the habit of reminding him daily that he was lucky to not be on the dole queue. He'd expected to be demoted, at least. It was a long time before he realised that he hadn't been demoted for the same reason that John hadn't gone to prison for punching Chief Superintendent Dawson: a well-timed phone call from Mycroft Holmes.

It might have been due to a well-timed phone call from Mycroft Holmes that, at half-past six on the morning of the eleventh of October, Lestrade was called upon to investigate his first homicide since his suspension. A man's body had been found in Hyde Park, in a children's play area near the Italian Gardens.

Despite twenty-four years of active service and seven on the Metropolitan murder squad, Lestrade had never been a morning person, and at this stage of his career it was very unlikely that he'd become one. He was a little late to the crime scene, and by the time he arrived the body had been photographed and covered, with Donovan firmly in charge of matters. She met him at his car.

"What's happened?" he asked her.

"Guy got killed."

"Yeah, very funny." This was his usual banter with Donovan, and had been ever since they'd started working together; but there was something automatic, even cold about it these days. "Is this domestic, or gang violence, or what?"

She shook her head. "Neither, as far as I can tell," she said.

 _And neither of us are Sherlock Holmes,_ Lestrade let himself think as they approached the spot where the body lay.

"If you ask me, this one's a sicko," Donovan was saying. _Sicko_ was her go-to term to describe someone who killed people for the sheer joy of killing. "I hope you haven't had breakfast. It's not a pretty sight."

With a sigh of relief, Lestrade noted that Kathy Gifford was the pathologist in charge of this crime scene. She was a jolly, middle-aged woman with rosy cheeks, who'd sometimes left herself open to criticism that she didn't take her job seriously. Anyone who had ever worked with her, though, knew she spoke lightly to get through days of dark work. After greeting him by name, she temporarily removed the tarp from the body to give him a look at what he was dealing with.

_Spread-eagled on his back. Naked. Tall… well over six foot. Measure him at the post-mortem. Shaved head. Arms and chest have large patches that have been skinned. Jaw crushed, teeth broken. Crushing injuries around the throat made with some kind of blunt object… fingers removed at the second joint…_

"Okay, go," he said to Gifford. "Time of death?"

"We're in luck." She squatted down beside the body, her boots glistening like slugs in the dewy grass. "The meteorology report says that the dew didn't set in until around two, and under the body was dry. Given his state, I'd say no earlier than ten, and closer to two. You'll probably get a narrower time of death from the post-mortem. He was probably killed here, but that's your department."

Lestrade nodded. "I suppose it'd be a bit stupid to ask for cause of death?"

"I think the post-mortem will confirm it as a single blow to the windpipe. Asphyxiated. Heavy, blunt object, possibly a metal pipe or something of that nature. Whatever it is, it's not here."

"And these other injuries, on his arms and chest…"

"Oh, and his back, as well," Gifford said cheerfully.

"Before death?"

"After. Along with the severed fingers and the smashed face, which was probably done with whatever got him in the throat."

"Well, thank Christ for small mercies, I suppose." Whoever this guy was, and whatever he'd done in his life, it couldn't have been a pleasant way to go, even as far as murders went. Lestrade had a brief moment wondering how he'd end up leaving the world. Hopefully it wasn't going to be stark naked in Hyde Park. Or smashed up on the pavement outside a hospital.

"What about his clothes?" he continued, ruthlessly shoving that thought aside.

"No sign of them. Removed after death, I'd say, or at least after he'd lost consciousness, since there's no bruising."

"Maybe he took them off voluntarily? As far as I know this isn't a known… no, forget I said that. Of course, his clothes were taken off him."

He could practically hear Sherlock's voice in his head: _Oh, come on, Lestrade, will you open your eyes and look? His clothes are missing from the scene, probably in an attempt to hinder identificaton. Anyhow, he wouldn't have taken every stitch of clothing off for sex in a public park in October._

That one almost made him smile.

"I'll be able to tell you more after the post-mortem," Gifford was saying. "Overall, it looks like a pretty professional job."

"A hit?"

Gifford shrugged: never a good sign from a scientist. "Someone who's had practice, though that doesn't necessarily mean they've killed before. Certainly I'd say that the skinning was done by someone who knew what they were doing."

"A butcher, maybe."

"Perhaps. Very sharp blade used, I can say that. Same for the fingers—done with a knife, or perhaps a razor, not a cleaver. All done here, without a light source of any kind, unless your murderer brought a torch. He probably worked from touch alone. Looks like you'll have a lot of fun with this one."

Yes, Lestrade reflected. Yes, he would. Six months before, he'd have had Sherlock Holmes on the phone and down to the crime scene before Gifford could even finish. The crime would be solved in two days if not sooner, and then it'd be down the pub for a pint with John so they could both vent about how obnoxious Sherlock could be. As it was, this shit was probably going to drag on for _months_.

"Never mind; you've a good track record, Lestrade," she said, At this junction, Philip Anderson wandered over. Lestrade gave a barely perceptible sigh. He'd hoped that someone else was on tech that shift. He'd never overly liked Anderson, and after the events of the previous June, there were times when he was pretty sure he hated him. Once, he'd permitted himself to despair that a great man like Sherlock Holmes was dead and Anderson was still alive.

"Anderson," he said. Oh, well. The man was here now, and he'd always been good at his actual job. "What have you got for me?"

Anderson glanced around uncomfortably. "Well, this is a new one..."

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Cleanest crime scene I've seen yet," Anderson went on.

"Yeah, well, there's got to be _something_ to go on. No such thing as a clean crime scene, you know that."

"The area was sealed off by the handover officers when I got here, and looks like nobody'd been within twenty feet of the body except the woman who found him." Anderson gestured to where a uniformed policewoman was comforting a shaken but dry-eyed woman in her late thirties. Having nowhere else to sit, she was seated on a child's swing in the play area.

"And the guy who killed him." Lestrade mentally corrected himself. _Person. The person who killed him._ Though his experience told him it was very unlikely he was looking for a woman.

"Well, obviously," Anderson huffed. Even he could tell when Lestrade was implying he was below par. "But there's no sign of it. The scene's been fully photographed, and I've checked every inch of the grass around. Nothing. No blood anywhere except for the foot or so around the body, no semen—"

"Not surprised. I don't think any of us were assuming this was a sex crime."

"It doesn't need to be," Anderson said. "70% of male victims ejaculate at the point of death."

Lestrade raised one eyebrow. "Seriously?"

"Medical fact. But anyway, he didn't, so there goes that idea."

Lestrade swiped at his chin, trying to hide a shameful grin. Just a half-formed thought about...

"Neither did his killer," Anderson was saying, "which _would_ indicate a psycho-sexual crime. Also, there are no drag marks. No footprints on the grass, except for those of the witness."

"And those of the victim."

"No, there are no footprints of the victim, either."

"There have to be."

"There aren't."

"Are you sure you aren't confusing-"

"I know the difference between the footprints of a 5'4'' woman and a 6'3'' man," Anderson huffed, full of bruised dignity. "And anyway, what's the likelihood of them walking in each other's footsteps exactly?"

"Right," Lestrade said. "So I guess your theory is that the victim fell out of a nearby tree? Or a plane? Or he was picked up somewhere else and then dropped here by an oversized eagle? No, wait. I've got it. Aliens. Aliens must be behind it."

"Sir -"

"We need something sane to put on the report. Look again."

"I've looked over every inch of ground four times."

"Then do it a _fifth_ time, will you?"

Bloody _hell._ A dead, naked John Doe on his hands, with no distinguishing features, found in a pristine crime scene. And on top of that, the help he had amounted to the likes of Anderson.

And Sherlock Holmes was dead.

On the second Saturday afternoon after the discovery of the Hyde Park body, Harry Watson descended upon her brother's flat without warning. He had been sitting on the bed, seemingly not doing anything in particular; on hearing the door opening, he got to his feet in sudden alarm.

"Behold," she announced, pushing the door open with one elbow, "it is I."

"Oh, Harry. For God's sake…"

"Sorry, but you know the rules," she said without amusement, trying to shut the door behind her with her shoulder. Both hands were occupied with laden shopping bags. "If you don't answer your phone, I come round to piss you off."

John did know "the rules". Harry had made them clear to him ever since that day in June when Lestrade had called her to tell her Sherlock Holmes was dead. In fact, she'd all but presented it to John in writing: She was to be given a spare key to wherever he was living at the time, and either half a day of ignored texts or three consecutive ignored calls would result in an unheralded visit. That this would piss him off was an accepted fact between them.

"So anyway, here I am, so you may as well stop sulking and entertain me for half an hour. Are you all right?" Harry went on, heaving the bags onto the kitchen counter and flipping the switch on the kettle.

"I'm fine," he protested, eyeing those groceries with deep misgivings. "Why do you always have to assume something's wrong? I was _out."_

She glanced over her shoulder at him, brushing tendrils of unruly, sand-coloured hair out of her hazel eyes. In the last few days, John noted, she'd dyed one thick lock near her temple a blinding shade of electric blue. Harry's physical age was rapidly barreling toward her forties, but her mental age was stuck permanently at seventeen. "Out?" she echoed. "Out where, doing what?"

"Out walking on the common, if you really must know."

"On your own?"

"No. Molly Hooper came around." John watched her as she made coffee for them both. Her hands and voice were both steady enough to indicate that she was, for now, on the wagon.

"Molly Hooper?" she said lightly as she clinked the teaspoon against the ceramic cups. "Where have I heard that name?"

"Blog, probably. She's... she was a friend of Sherlock's. She only left fifteen minutes ago. I haven't even had a _chance_ to look at my ph—oh, don't look at me like that."

"Well I'm just saying, John."

"What are you 'just saying'?"

"That it wouldn't hurt you any to go on a date every now and again—good Lord, there's actual _food_ in here," Harry said, opening the fridge for milk. "Ooh, and milk that _didn't_ expire four days ago. What a treat." She shut the fridge door again with her hip.

John rolled his eyes and decided not to lay out all the reasons—and good reasons, too, he thought—that he'd be the world's worst date. "So what's been happening with you, then?" he asked instead as she handed him a cup of coffee. If anything was going to put his life into perspective, perhaps it'd be Harry's life.

"You mean, how long it's been since I had a drink? Two months, eighteen days and… I don't know, eleven hours this time? I'm getting better at this, I really am."

He sipped his coffee. "Yeah," he agreed without malice. "You are." Her last drying-out attempt had lasted a grand total of four days, and he'd not known her to lay off the booze for this long since her twenties. "What's changed?"

"Hmm?"

"Well, you're doing something new."

She shrugged. "I'm not really doing anything new," she said. "Just got a lot of willpower this time around, I suppose. If I can hold on and make it three months I'm well clear of this, and then I can start looking for work again."

Harry was an architect by profession, and a very good one: a past winner of accolades and awards. She'd been compelled to resign a well-paid position four-and-a-half years before when her drinking, which had been heavy since her teen years, finally got out of hand. John had been in Afghanistan at the time, but he had an idea this was the rock Harry and Clara had finally split on.

"I, um." John fidgeted. "You, um, you know I'm really proud of you for this, right?"

"Thanks. I've worked bloody hard to stay sober for this long." She looked around. As usual, the bedsit was pristine; it could hardly be otherwise, given that it was barely bigger than a cardboard box and John didn't own enough things to make it untidy. He had always been neat, ever since earliest childhood. Any sort of emotional turmoil, though, resulted in him being ridiculous about it. The bedsit had officially been in ridiculous territory ever since John had moved in. Pristine countertops. Perfectly level, unwrinkled bedspread. Washed _ceiling_ , for God's sake.

"John," she said, "come and live with me."

"Harry -"

"Just for a few months, while you get back on your feet. You can't stay here. It's pathetic."

"Not as pathetic as a grown man moving in with his sister."

"Oh, shut up, people do it all the time. My old boss was forty and lived with his mother. And don't snap at me, because I'm enjoying this feel-sorry-for-John business about as much as _you_ are."

There was an awkward silence.

"I can't move in with you," John finally said with a shake of his head, as if he'd at least considered it. "We'd kill each other. You know we would."

"But I'm sober…"

"That's not what I meant." John hid his expression in his cup of coffee. "I mean, yeah, that doesn't help much, but... look, I don't make a very good flatmate. For anyone."

"We could be thoroughly messed up individuals together," she suggested hopefully.

"Like I said, I think there'd be murder," he said. "And you'd kill me first. But thanks. For offering, I mean."

Harry paused. "Okay," she said. "But remember, there's a spare room over at my house and it's yours whenever you want it. For however long you want it for."

"Right," John said, nodding. "Okay. Thank you."

"And John, I was just speaking with Greg Lestrade yesterday. While I appreciate that Mycroft Holmes needs to be punched in the face more often, and I wish I'd been there to see you deck him, if you ever get the gas cut off or anything like that because you're too chicken to tell me you're broke, I'm going to punch _you_ in the face. Are we clear on that?"

John nearly smiled. "Clear."

"Great, glad we've got that cleared up." Harry sipped her coffee. "Now anyway, back to this Molly Hooper…"

"Oh, God, Harry, no. She was a friend of Sherlock's, that's all."

"Hmm. And by 'friend…'?"

"Oh, God, you've no idea. She wanted to have about fifteen of his kids." To John's own surprise, this had come out without bitterness. He felt an urgent tug on his heartstrings, wishing that Sherlock had had children—with Molly Hooper or anyone else, just so that he could have left something of himself in the world.

"That's… really sad," Harry said softly.

"Yeah, it is. So can we not talk about it anymore?"


	4. A Friend of Yours

If he felt that he needed it (and he didn't), John received a flood of support over the autumn after Sherlock's death. Besides Harry, Lestrade, and Molly, there was Mrs Hudson. John still couldn't bring himself to return to the flat that had been his home for eighteen months, but that didn't prevent Mrs Hudson from inviting him out for brunch, or insisting he accompany her to the cemetery every few weeks. John refused to invite Mrs Hudson to the bedsit, for the same reason he was reluctant to allow Harry into it: Mrs Hudson would take one look at the dingy little place and immediately demand he return to Baker Street, even if it meant moving into _her_ flat. It was much easier to say no to Harry than it was to Mrs Hudson.

There were others, though. Mike Stamford had always been a stand-up guy, and more so since it had happened. He never mentioned Sherlock in front of John, but John thought, perhaps... perhaps Mike understood what was going on, a bit. Bill phoned regularly, though he hadn't yet managed to convince John to visit him in person, and once, John received a phone call from Sarah Sawyer. They had quite a civilised conversation, but underneath it all, John was as cold as steel with her. Sarah hadn't wanted to stick around while Sherlock Holmes was alive. It seemed downright ghoulish of her to call once she learned he was dead.

More well-meaning, and better received, was Henry Knight. After the events in Grimpen the previous March, Henry had taken himself to America for some well-needed rest and relaxation. Returning after six months, and knowing nothing about Sherlock's death, he'd gone to Baker Street. Mrs Hudson had passed on the sad news and put him in touch with John, and John was less than appreciative. Henry was stricken, and he was angry. He promptly released all this stricken anger onto John.

"But why would he do that…? He can't have been a fraud…" Henry was smoking in the tiny bedsit, something that was both against John's personal preferences and his tenancy agreement. He'd said nothing to Henry, however. "He can't have. He _knew_ things."

"Yes, I know."

"That day, remember? The day I came to Baker Street." Henry waved his cigarette a little, as much as if to say that his primary memory of that day was Sherlock's desperate and completely bizarre bid for his second-hand smoke.

John smiled.

"He even knew where the girl I'd talked to was sitting on the train," Henry went on, taking another aggressive puff on his cigarette. "He _couldn't_ have known that unless he'd been there…"

And John knew for a fact that while _that_ had been happening, Sherlock had been in the cool-room of Allen's of Mayfair harpooning a dead pig, not on a train from Exeter.

"What are you going to do?"

John tensed slightly. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you can't just let everyone think he was-"

"Don't you think I've tried?"

Henry stopped, cigarette suspended in his shaking hand, as if it had only just dawned on him. "Yes," he finally said, glancing away. "God, yes, of _course_ you would. Sorry."

"It's okay."

It wasn't. It had been five months of not-okay. But John wasn't prepared to discuss the hellish weeks after Sherlock's death - weeks of not just grief, but questions with no real answers. The TV reports. The snide newspaper articles. Letters to the Editor, accusing Sherlock of anything and everything. How the... whole thing... played out on social media. John knew of at least one Facebook group that had somehow been deemed _not_ a hate group and was still, so far as he knew, flourishing. Someone had taken photographs of him at Sherlock's funeral. He'd found them on Tumblr, alongside comments like "Obviously had something to do with it" and suggestions his tearless state was sociopathic. And while Sherlock had never trended on Twitter in his life, he'd done so on the day after his death. Very few of those tweets were supportive.

Then, John thought to himself, there was his blog. Inactive. Comments disabled. He'd used it to honour Sherlock, and he hated that he couldn't use it to vindicate him.

The week before, though, Mike had linked him to a different kind of Facebook community. It was called _I Believe in Sherlock Holmes._ It had, at least when John had seen it , 112 members, and a lively set of discussions between people who, for whatever reason, had seen or heard or read Sherlock being... well, Sherlock. A genius. An obnoxious, arrogant genius...

"So what are you doing with yourself now?"

John snapped back to attention, then looked around and shrugged. "Getting myself sorted," he said. A phrase that must have meant very little to Henry, because it meant very little to John. "It'll take some time."

"Well, if you ever need some help with that-"

Before Henry could get any further, or John could blow up at yet _another_ attempt to give him money, they both heard a light tap on the closed front door. John rose, but before he could reach it, it opened: Molly. Seeing an unexpected stranger, she stopped short in embarrassment. "Oh, God, sorry…"

"It's okay." John got up. "Come in."

As usual, Molly hadn't come empty handed, and was struggling with a shopping bag over one arm and her handbag over the other. John held the security door open for her, and with an abashed glance at Henry, she ducked under his arm and through into the kitchen. Henry fumbled to put out his cigarette, and John followed Molly to where she was dithering by the stove.

"Sorry," she said again. "I didn't know you had a visitor…"

"He doesn't bite. And _you're_ a visitor." John looked into the shopping bag: Milk, bread, and, oddly, bananas and pears. A sudden memory sprang up, one of being a very young child and visiting his grandfather in hospital. He'd asked his mother, _Why do people bring fruit when someone's sick?_

 _Oh, Squirt,_ she'd said. _It's just a nice thing to have when you're not feeling well._

"Do you want me to go?" Molly asked, flicking one thumb in the general direction of the front door.

"No, I want you to stay," he said, turning his back on the convalescent food and steering her into the kitchen doorway. "You remember Henry? Case we once worked on. Henry, Molly was a friend of Sherlock's. I'll put the kettle on…"

Henry and Molly shook hands without undue incident, but after an exchange of hellos, neither of them seemed to be able to think of anything to say. And that was hardly a surprise, John thought as he fussed around the tiny kitchen, filling the kettle and retrieving cups and spoons. After all, the only thing Molly and Henry had in common was someone who'd just killed himself, and they could hardly talk about that. He heard them exchange some pleasantries about the weather, but as the kettle clicked off John looked up to see Henry get up, hands slipped into his back jeans pockets.

"Sorry, I think I'd best be off," he said. "I've got business in town that needs to be done today. It was nice to meet you, Molly."

"Oh, yes, um." Molly smiled, but it looked almost manic for a second. She was awkward, John thought, but she certainly wasn't stupid.

"I'll see you tomorrow, John," Henry was saying. "Send you a text or something, we'll... I don't know... meet somewhere..."

"It's fine," John said. "Talk soon."

Clattering loudly through the security door, Henry took himself away. John watched through the open curtain as he trudged toward the main road, hands shoved in his pockets. It was only when he'd disappeared from sight that Molly spoke up from where she'd been standing near the bathroom door, since Henry had been occupying the flat's only chair.

"John," she said, "what did you mean?"

"What did I mean when?" He brought his cup and hers over to the little table, remembering for the first time that he hadn't actually asked her if she wanted tea.

"When you said I was a friend of Sherlock's…"

"Well, you are," he said. "I mean, you were. You... you know he didn't mean to be cruel all the time, right? He just... didn't..."

"Yes. That's not what I meant, though," she said. She reached over for her tea, sipping it with a little flinch that signified a scalded lip. The unoccupied chair sat like an embarrassment between them, neither of them willing to fill it. "I mean, you didn't tell Henry I was a friend of _yours._ "

John paused, as if the undeniable fact that Molly was his own friend had only just entered his mind. "I… well, yeah, good point," he finally said. "I guess I didn't."

"Why not?"

"… I don't know."

"But we _are_ friends, aren't we?"

"Yeah, of course we are." He grabbed for his own cup to hide his embarrassment. "Sorry. I don't know why I said that… didn't say that… I mean… sorry."

"John," she ventured, "the next time you introduce me to someone, I think I want you to call me your friend. Is that okay?"

"Yes. Sorry."

* * *

In mid-November, Molly finally broached the issue of the Barts Christmas Party.

The Barts Christmas Party was a thing of legend and the source of a year's worth of gossip and drama among the hospital staff. Fifteen years before, John himself had attended one in which Mike Stamford gave the rest of his classmates a true crash course in first aid by passing out and falling down three flights of stairs. He'd bounced his way down to the bottom and walked off with a few scratches, and there were colleagues who _still_ called him 'Flubber'.

Molly had never attended one of these parties, though she'd worked at Barts for nearly a decade. But since she brought it up every single time she saw John for a week, it was pretty obvious that this year, at least, she wanted to go. It was almost a relief for John, and certainly one for her, when she finally managed to blurt out that she was wondering if John would like to go with her. Even if she _did_ immediately turn crimson and start backpedaling like a maniac.

"I mean… I just thought, you know, it's Christmas and you maybe haven't been out in a while, and…" Here she completely broke off, and John wondered what he was going to do if she started to cry.

"Molly," he said gently. "You know I can't go back to Barts. Not yet."

"It's not actually at Barts, though, it's at the Lord Admiral's," she said. "Mike and Chrissy Stamford will be going and… it's... it's fine."

John sighed. "When?"

"Saturday the fourth. But really, what you said about not being able to go back to Barts. I'm sorry. I hadn't thought about it like that. It's fine…"

"I don't have a complicated history with the Lord Admiral's," John said. "I suppose I… Well. If you want to go, I suppose we could put in an appearance for a bit."

_It's been a hard year on you too, Molly._

* * *

After hearing about her brother's upcoming foray into the world of corporate Christmas parties, Harry invaded the bedsit with the spoils of high-end men's clothing stores. More, she brought Mrs Hudson with her _._ Harry was sociable, and actively sought out and made friends easily. She and Mrs Hudson had met during... all that... and been firm friends ever since. The two of them had come in looking incredibly pleased with themselves. Judging from the way poor Mrs Hudson was limping, John thought to himself, they'd walked halfway around London that day.

"Oh, Harry," he groaned into his hand. "No. _no…"_

"Oh, yes," she said, putting half a dozen shopping bags on the little table with an air of exhausted triumph. "If you're going to go on your first date in more than six months -"

"It's not a _date-"_

"- Then so help me God, you are going to go dressed decently."

"I _have_ a decent suit."

"It's over two years old and starting to look worse for wear," Harry said. "Now stop complaining and go and try this on, quick. Tea, Mrs Hudson?"

John sighed and took the bag Harry offered him into the bathroom, since it was the only room in the flat that had a door that could be closed. The name on the bag meant absolutely nothing to him, but the price tag did. "Oh, for f- "

"Does it fit?" Harry knocked gently on the door.

"I'm not wearing a _nine hundred pound suit_ -"

"That's the _before_ sale price," she told him truthfully. "Just ignore the price tag on the shirt. Does it fit?"

"Harriet Anne Watson, I'm going to every men's clothing store in London with your photograph and a Do Not Sell To This Woman order." John opened the door with more force than necessary. "Yeah, look, it fits. But I'm not wearing it, so you're going to have to take it back. My God, I could probably buy a _car_ for-"

"Oh, but you look so lovely in it!" Mrs Hudson spoke over Harry, who wanted to know why John would even _want_ to buy a nine-hundred-quid car. She tweaked one of John's sleeves and brushed an imaginary speck off his lapel. "Just lovely, John. Really. Molly's such a lucky g-"

"Mrs _Hudson_ ," John protested, more gently now. "Look, I know you two are all excited about the idea of this being a date, but it really isn't one. Molly wanted to go to this thing, but she won't go on her own. She's shy. That's all."

"Well, in my day when a man took a woman to a party, people called it a date," Mrs Hudson said, still fussing with John's cuffs. "Oh, dear, Harry, I thought this had buttons..."

"Don't encourage her, Mrs Hudson." John glanced at himself in the mirror on the back of the bathroom door. "Oh, come _on_. I can't wear this. I look ridiculous."

 _This is something Sherlock would wear. Would_ _have worn._

"I'll thank you not to insult my taste," Harry said blithely. "God knows you insult everything else, but there are limits. You look great. Take it off and try this on now." She handed him another bag, and he groaned.

"So much for you buying something for me to wear to _one_ event."

"Well, honestly, you're starting to look like nobody owns you." Harry folded her arms. "Do it for me please, brother dear. I'm sick of looking at you wearing jeans I know you bought eight years ago."

Harry had won both the battle and the war, and John seethed in resentment as he shut the bathroom door behind himself again. Harry had always got her own way, with him, their parents, Clara and other people, just by being a pest and refusing to mind if people told her that. And while he could and did say no to her, he had a hard time saying no to Mrs Hudson.

Mrs. Hudson knew it, too. Once he'd reluctantly agreed to keep everything Harry had bought him, he sat down - on the bed, anyhow - to the tea Harry had made.

"John," Mrs. Hudson said after exchanging a look with Harry. "This flat. It's not... well, it's not very nice, is it...?"

He'd seen this coming for the entire time Mrs. Hudson had been in the bedsit, and shrugged. "It's okay."

"Those curtains, dear, they're really..." She trailed off, and John almost smiled. For someone who thought the wallpaper in 221B was 'lovely'...

"Come home, John," she said.

"Home...?"

"Don't be silly about it. You know where home is. I can get Mycroft to take away Sherlock's things if you don't think you can see them right now..."

Something painful sparked up in John's chest. Sherlock's things.

He'd bravely the matter of what to do with _Sherlock's things_ to others after the funeral: to Mycroft or Mrs. Hudson or Molly or Greg or whoever wanted to deal with them, because he certainly hadn't. He'd assumed the business of moving things away from 221B had been finished by now, and that the flat was lying bare, with Mrs Hudson looking for new tenants. Sherlock's things were still there? His furniture and books, perhaps, but John found himself wondering whether his shoes were still lined up near the wardrobe in the bedroom, his toothbrush sitting in a plastic cup in the bathroom. He swallowed hard.

"Thank you," he mumbled. "But it's fine. Honestly. I like it here."

An obvious lie, but it was going to have to do for now.

When Mrs Hudson and Harry had finally left him to his own devices, John stood for a few minutes, looking at the suit hanging on the back of the bathroom door. He had to give it to Harry. she _did_ have good taste, and an eye for quality. And pulling teeth would probably be easier than getting her to take this thing back for a refund.

Well, fine, he'd _wear_ it then. Still, it had been stupid and unnecessary of her to spend a fortune on clothing for him, and it did look like...

He had a sudden thought: _Sherlock's things. Something Sherlock would wear._

Almost from the start of their flat-share, he'd treated most of Sherlock's possessions like his own, and he'd been welcome to. If there was one thing Sherlock had never been, it was possessive about his things. He'd always shared and given freely, especially things he felt he didn't need or couldn't use.

John still had a couple of these little mementos: The ashtray from Buckingham Palace. The warrant card Sherlock had pickpocketed from Greg (who still had no idea where it had gone). A tie-pin he'd never worn. And there was something else...

After a short rummage under the bed, John brought out a small red cardboard box. Diamond cufflinks. Sherlock's token gift for the return of _The Falls of the Reichenbach._

Sherlock had given him these, or rather, he'd chucked them to him as if they were worthless, since he'd never worn cufflinks in his life and wasn't about to start. Diamonds. Glass. It was all the same to Sherlock.

John had never worn them. He had never had a reason to. They were large and well-cut and clearly worth a fortune, but the idea of selling them had never even entered his head. He nudged at them with his index finger for a few moments, watching them glint in the overhead light and thinking.

No. Morbid. Morbid and _wrong._ He had no right to wear these.

He pushed the lid into place and shoved the box back under the bed.


	5. Chapter 5

Molly hadn't yet had the pleasure of meeting Harry, so she'd had to make her own preparations for the party. John neither knew nor cared, but her hair and makeup had both been professionally done. He _did_ notice that she looked quite nice, and was wearing the black and silver strapped dress from the Christmas before. No doubt, he thought, it was the only posh dress she owned. A dress bought for the benefit of Sherlock Holmes.

On arrival, the concierge took her coat to the cloakroom. Inside of about two minutes, she learned the hard way that a dress bought to impress her crush and worn among a small group of friends felt quite different when worn in front of seventy of her work colleagues, many of whom she'd never met. John let her self-consciously put her hand on her decolletage and tweak her dress and bra straps for half a minute before he asked her if she was cold, then offered her his jacket. The room wasn't cold; if anything, it was crowded and stuffy. But Molly took the jacket and wrapped it around herself like she was in a blizzard.

"I'll get you a drink," he said. "What do you want?"

She didn't know what she wanted. John took the matter into his own hands, though he had to practically fight his way up to the bar, since the place was too small for the capacity it held. All dark wood furnishings and heavy, steady furniture, and blinding coloured lights that the current owners had put in in a misguided attempt to make the place look modern and fashionable. But at least he could currently hear himself think. By the time he returned from the bar Molly had found Mike and Chrissy, or perhaps they'd found her. They were standing together in one corner.

"John, what are _you_ doing here?" Mike glanced at the jacket Molly had wrapped around herself.

"Reliving old times." John handed Molly a flute of champagne, trying to convey _this is not a date_ to Mike via telepathy. "Try not to fall down any stairs tonight, Mike. I don't think you'd bounce like you used to."

"Stairs…?" Chrissy repeated blankly.

Chrissy and Mike had been married for nine years and had three small children, so John thought it slightly odd that she'd never heard about the night Mike had become a human slinky. He didn't exactly dislike Chrissy, but had always dismissed her as a bit of a fake. And he could hardly be blamed for the conclusion, as that night she was sporting fake nails, fake tan and fake hair colour - and he was fairly sure that significant parts of the rest of her were fake, too.

Mike laughed in his boyish way and explained.

"Oh," Chrissy said.

Good thing, John reflected, that he'd told _that_ little anecdote, and not the one about the time they'd 'borrowed' that cadaver arm...

"So, Molly." Chrissy blatantly changed the subject. "You're looking very nice. I had no idea you two were together."

Molly flushed, and John bit down hard on his irritation. "Just platonically, Chrissy," he said casually. "You know how it is... you need a partner in crime on these occasions. How are the kids?"

For the next twenty minutes, John and Molly were subjected to everything there was to possibly know about Mike and Chrissy's kids. Taylah had the reading level of a ten year old. Mackenzie was the smartest kid in her kindergarten class. Kai was toilet training even though he wasn't quite two, which apparently made him some sort of genius also even though John, with an admittedly limited understanding of pediatrics, couldn't actually see the connection between motor skills and intelligence. Everything that Taylah, Mackenzie and Kai did or said was combed over, with nothing left out. Molly was either genuinely interested, or she was a spectacular actress. John had honed a certain, "I'm alert and listening, really I am" stance as part of his bedside manner and was using it now, even though he wasn't listening to a thing Chrissy was saying. He was starting to feel like a novelty dashboard ornament when Chrissy, mid-sentence, gasped and pitched forward. She'd been slammed into from behind and lost control of her glass of claret, most of which ended up on Molly.

"Oh, God, sorry -"

"John, your jacket…"

"It's all right, don't worry about the jacket. Are you okay?" John reached over and flicked some droplets off onto the floor.

"Yes," Molly said wretchedly, hands held up as if in surrender. "Yes, I'm fine…"

John pulled out a handkerchief and set about mopping up the spill as best he could; mortified, he suddenly realised he was mopping claret from Molly's decolletage. But before Molly could register this too, she was forced to duck out of the way as Claire Ryan crashed into her.

Claire Ryan was an orderly from Barts. Molly didn't know her particularly well, but the older woman called her "sweetie" and other overfamiliar things when she came across her in one of the labs, or in the corridor, or the canteen. She was a well-meaning soul and meant few people any malice. But she didn't understand, and would never understand, that Molly was shy and happy to be left alone, and that she found Claire's constant attempts at conversation excruciating.

And at the present moment, Claire was also falling down drunk and reeked like a pub carpet. Her dull, balding husband David, who had seemed much more dynamic in his wife's constant references to him in otherwise unrelated conversation, looked a little better for wear but wasn't about to stop her. Claire threw an arm around Molly's shoulders.

"Here's to the best for the new year." She tried to clink glasses with Molly and missed, sloshing yet more alcohol onto John's jacket.

"Oh, um, yes," Molly murmured, glancing in horror down at the soaked spot and then across at John.

"The _best,"_ Claire was saying. "Because this was truly the worst year ever. Especially for you…"

Molly blinked and withdrew slightly. "Sorry, what?"

"Oh, Molly, you lovely girl, you. Look at you being so... brave! So brave. I've always admired you like that, you know? We all know how you felt about the freak who jumped off the roof. Worshipped the ground he walked on."

Molly looked across at John again, this time in trepidation. John's expression remained neutral, but he'd heard Claire. He can't possibly not have - she was three feet away from him.

"Yes, well," she said, trying to think of an effective way of shutting Claire up and remaining polite at the same time. "It was very sad, of course, but Claire, perhaps, um -"

"And look, well, we were none of us blind, so we can hardly blame you for it. Sight for sore eyes, there's no denying it. Miranda from the canteen - you remember Miranda -? She used to take all these photographs of him on her phone. Him and his swishy coat. Good-looking boy. Though a bit pretty, and probably leaned in the other direction, you know?"

"Claire, I think you've had -"

"David, I think you should probably get your missus home," Mike jumped in pleasantly. He'd intercepted the looks Molly was directing to John and had seen how tense John's body language was, though his face was still determinedly bland.

David opened his mouth to respond, but Claire spoke over both of them.

"And look, I've got to tell you, Molly, he treated you like dirt," she said. "It's always the good-looking ones who treat girls like that, have you noticed? Awful. It was pitiful the way you were so cut up after he offed himself. You need to get _over_ him. Find yourself somebody who isn't a freak who kidnaps and poisons kids, you know? If that's _all_ he did. Because between you and me, it wouldn't surprise me if he took those kids so he could -"

"Excuse me." John handed his drink to Molly, then turned and quickly made his way through the crowd in the direction of the fire stairs. Molly, now with a drink in each hand, a wet jacket and a loaded colleague leaning heavily on her arm, looked helplessly at Mike.

"Hold these. Please." She handed both drinks to Mike and brushed off Claire gently. "I think Claire needs to go home, David. Excuse me."

* * *

John could never clearly remember how he ended up on the freezing, shadowy fire stairs. He reached out blindly for the handrail and slipped down onto the third step, breathing into his cupped, shaking hands. The overhead light seemed to dim. After a few seconds of trying to get his breath back the door behind opened and shut with a dull clunk. He did not even bother to turn around: it was Molly. Of _course_ it was Molly.

She stood in silence for a minute or two. Then he heard a little shuffling sound, and could see the tip of one of her shoes out of the corner of his eye, on the step he was sitting on.

"Ignore me," he managed to get out. "Just ignore me…"

No word or sign from her. After a few minutes of silence, though, she tapped gently on his shoulder. He turned his head. She was offering him a tissue.

"Um," he said, taking it from her. He'd only just noticed that his face was wet, and wasn't sure if it was sweat or tears. "Sorry... I can't do this in front of anyone else…"

She reached out and put the palm of her hand on his back for a second. "I'll call a cab."

"If you want to stay, I'll just -"

"I'll call a cab."

Molly had never seen a man fall to pieces like this, so abruptly and completely, and she was a seasoned morgue attendant. But once, she remembered, she'd come close. She'd been nine or ten years old, and her father had come home from work very late. She was supposed to be asleep, but he'd woken her up coming in, and she'd overheard him "breathing funny." She'd hid on the landing and, through the stair railing, had seen him washing his hands and sobbing softly into the kitchen sink. And twenty years later, she still didn't know why. It was too late to ask him. She remembered him washing blood off his hands that night - lots of blood, turning the running water pink and swirling down the drain. Years later, when she became a pathologist herself, she realised that he would never have come home with work-related blood on his hands. He was scrubbing his hands raw. The blood was his own.

He had seen something horrible. And so had John Watson.

She called for a cab.

"Ten minutes," she murmured to him as she hung up the line. She had no idea what else to say. John was still sitting on the step below, his back to her, breathing into his hands.

They sat in silence for a few minutes.

"Thank you," he finally said.

"For what…?"

"For sitting here in the freezing cold with me while I act like a complete idiot."

She reached out to put her hand on his back again; at the last second, she drew it back again, self-conscious and confused. "Come on," she said instead. "Come on, the cab should be here soon."

* * *

John made no protest when Molly gave the cab driver her address and not his own, and Molly did not speak again until he was safely seated in her living room. Or at least, he didn't _think_ she'd said anything to him. But as she sat him down, he heard her muttering "it's okay… you're okay…" and wondered how long she'd been telling him that without his realising

"It's okay. You're okay." She gently touched the back of his head to encourage him to keep his head down. He was doing so, and now calm enough that he was starting to feel like a spectacular idiot, when he heard a squeak from behind the kitchen bench and Toby, the Toby of a Thousand and One Anecdotes, padded out. Seeing an unfamiliar human on his sofa he stopped, sat on his haunches, and stared unemotionally at John with his great yellow eyes. Molly picked him up and covered him in kisses - John, who was of the opinion that no human being should ever kiss an animal, flinched - and Toby squeaked again, this time in protest. It didn't interrupt his purring in the least, however.

"Here." Molly promptly dropped the sleek, plump tabby onto John's lap. "You should hold him for a bit."

Toby indicated that he quite agreed with this idea by rapturously butting his head against John's forehead, purring like an outboard motor. Not immediately receiving the petting he evidently felt entitled to, he decided to make up the difference by stroking his head against John's hand. Seeing John's reluctance, Molly paused.

"Oh, I should have asked. You're not allergic to cats, are you?"

"No... but, Molly, I'm not really a cat pers-"

"He'll make you feel better. He always makes me feel better." She smiled. "See, he likes you. He -"

She stopped short. It was almost six months before John finally heard that Toby _hated_ Mycroft Holmes, making a point of ignoring him in the most obvious way possible - when he wasn't growling and hissing at him like he was a mortal foe - and about the time he'd responded to his patronising him by cuffing him across the face with one paw. Toby was a lot of things, but a "nice kitty, there there" wasn't one of them.

"There," Molly said instead. "I'll make you some coffee."

"I don't want coffee…"

"I'll make you some tea."

Since Molly was apparently hell-bent on making him some form of hot beverage, and Toby had by now seated himself on his lap, paws tucked under, John decided to give in. By the time Molly handed over his cup of tea Toby was sound asleep, and John was absently scritching him behind the ears with one finger. Molly failed to note the expression that flickered across John's face as he took his first sip.

"I'll make up the spare room bed," she said.

"Oh, Molly, really, you don't -"

"I'll make up the spare room bed."

John blinked at her, half frustrated and half admiring. God, there was an actual _technique_ to it. When Molly decided something was so, she just repeated the same thing over and over until you gave up and agreed with her.

This _was_ going to involve him doing the Walk of Shame back home in the morning. Wearing a nine hundred pound suit that reeked of claret and was now covered in cat hair. The Walk of Shame from _Molly Hooper's house._

Well, that would give Mycroft something to bite on. Of course, Mycroft would find out about it. Mycroft found out about everything. John wouldn't have been in the least surprised to find out that Mycroft had microchipped him at some stage, just to keep better tabs on what he was up to.

* * *

"Are you sure he's asleep?"

"He won't wake," Molly said. "Temazepam. I almost had to carry him up the stairs. He'll be out for a few hours."

It was just over an hour later. Sherlock had come out to the house on her anxious request and they both stood in the hall near the doorway of the spare bedroom, speaking in whispers, Sherlock ready to slip away silently at a second's notice if necessary. John was tucked up and apparently dead to the world, with Toby curled up at his feet.

Sherlock blinked. "You gave him _Temazepam?"_

"Spiked his tea with it. The _state_ he was in, Sherlock." She crossed her arms and started chewing on one thumbnail, something Sherlock had never seen her do before.

"What happened?"

"Someone made a comment to me... about you. She was a bit drunk. It - wasn't complimentary and John heard it... Sherlock, I _can't do this anymore -"_

"Shhh," he hissed, despite the fact that neither John nor Toby had so much as twitched. He gently shut the bedroom door and they went downstairs and into the kitchen, where Molly went to the dishwasher and started packing it. Sherlock stood beside her, as if not quite sure of what to do now. After a few seconds, though, she turned to him.

"How long does this have to go on for?" she pleaded.

"I don't know."

"Months? Years?"

"I don't _know_."

"Why can't you just tell him what's going on?" she pleaded, voice pitched higher than usual in distress. "If you can trust me, you can trust him - "

"I wouldn't have asked _you_ if I wasn't desperate," Sherlock said. "Molly, I'm currently trying to run a sensitive... operation. Anything John finds out about it could put both of us in danger. The wrong choice of words to the wrong person, or - "

"He's not indiscreet," she protested.

"No, but he's a spectacularly bad actor."

"But why will that matter? If Moriarty is dead -"

"Molly." Sherlock held his hands up. _"D_ _on't_. Don't complicate the issue, and just _do as I ask_. I asked you to help me with this, not to get sentimental about John."

She flushed. "I'm NOT sentimental about John…"

"Oh, really?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "After successfully making friends with John you've decided to invite him to a work party that you've never bothered to attend before. That tells me you want to show him off, and while no doubt you spent at least _some_ of tonight telling people he isn't your boyfriend, you were secretly pleased when people assumed he was.

"Then there's your dress. You bought that _last_ Christmas and it was bought to impress - and _not_ to impress other women. I remember quite clearly that it had a certain effect on John Watson. You remember, too. You make good money and could easily afford to buy a new dress, but you decided it was best to go with a dress you know John likes rather than risk wearing something else that he might be more ambivalent about. But at some point someone spilled wine all over it - the smell is quite distinctive…"

Molly backed away a little. Sherlock had never sniffed her up and down before.

"… And judging from the fuzzy residue all over your collarbone, you were already wearing John's coat when that happened. Your dress is already dry, which means the spill happened at least two hours ago. It's just after ten o'clock, and most cocktail parties start around seven or half past, so I calculate you can't have been there for longer than fifteen or twenty minutes before covering up. Who puts on a posh, expensive dress and immediately covers it up? You weren't cold - your hair is sticky at the hairline and temples, so you were sweating, and you don't seem the sort to work up a sweat on the dancefloor, so you were probably in an overcrowded and overwarm room. But you wanted to cover up because you'd already shown yourself to the man the dress was _intended_ for and had no interest in a hundred other people viewing your assets. The fact that John helped you cover up may imply that he's just being a gentleman; more likely, and I'll be charitable and say on a subconscious level, he's not keen on every man in the room seeing what you've got to offer, because he'd prefer to be one of the chosen few to see _those_ , though for the life of me I'm not seeing any special appeal.

"Then there's your hair and makeup - generally you seem to have difficulty keeping your hair properly _brushed_ day to day, so there's no way you did that on your own; you went to the effort to get help with it, probably professionally. These are work colleagues who have seen you wearing little to no makeup for years, so why would you suddenly be trying to make an impression on _them_? The split ends in your hair indicate you only get your hair _cut_ once or twice a year, so paying someone to curl it up for you means that tonight was a _very_ big deal for you. And then there's your shoes."

"… My shoes…?"

"You're not wearing any." They both looked down at her stockinged feet. "But your shoes are over near the sofa instead of by the front door, and there are scuff marks on the floorboards and impressions on your feet from what must have been the world's most uncomfortable shoe-straps. You were wearing the shoes well after coming home and probably only took them off after you'd put John in bed and called me. If you'd come home on your own, or with someone you didn't at least _partly_ fancy, you'd have taken them off as you came in the front door. But risk foot odour from your stockings? _Never_ in front of a man you're trying to impress!

"Then there's the fact that John's passed out in your spare room bed because you gave him a prescription-only hypnotic. You went to considerable effort to make sure he was comfortable - no jacket, no shoes, duvet tucked over. It's not easy to remove the jacket and shoes of another adult if they're not being co-operative, and John isn't known for being co-operative. Then there's the cat. The pattern of cat hair on your dress indicates that you at some point lifted him to put him on the bed on purpose. You love that cat, and it's obvious that he sleeps on _your_ bed every night, so you'd only share him like that for the benefit of someone you actually care about.

"And then, finally, you're about to give me the keys you fished out of John's jacket pocket and ask me to go out to his flat and bring over a change of clothes for him for tomorrow, his toothbrush, things like that, because when he comes to he's going to wish he was dead for a few hours, and you're aware that a man of John's habits isn't going to be willing to wear clothes he's slept in any longer than he absolutely has to. You could easily go out yourself - after all, he's unlikely to wake while you're gone - but that would involve you going through his things in his absence, and while you're happy to slip him Temazepam you'd hate to go through his underwear drawer, which might result in you finding pornography or contraception or something else of a personal nature which would probably put considerations into your head that would be unwelcome right now. Am I wrong?"

Silence.

"Okay. Okay..." Molly turned her back to him and continued to unpack the dishwasher. Sherlock was not prepared for this.

"Do you want me to -"

"It's fine. I'll manage."

"I -"

She suddenly turned to face him again. "Sherlock, after all this, how could you think that it's _John?"_

Not for the first time, Sherlock suddenly felt ashamed. He spent a few seconds trying to formulate some sort of response as she turned back to the dishes, clanking cutlery against the stainless steel sink.

"I think you'd better go home," she said at last. "It's late, and you shouldn't be out like this."

"All right," Sherlock said, choosing not to point out that he'd come out because of how cryptic and urgent her phone call had sounded. "Fine."

He left the kitchen, but did not go straight to the front door. Instead, he went back up the draughty, shadowy stairs, furtively opening the spare room door again. John did not move, but Toby lifted his head this time at the unexpected noise and the chink of light from the hall.

Sherlock stood there for several minutes, silent and still, fighting the overwhelming urge to wake John up. _John, for God's sake, find me a case. I'll settle for an escaped rabbit at this point, whether it glows in the dark or not._

Finally he shook himself, exhaled, and gently shut the bedroom door again.


	6. Chapter 6

John slept, or was unconscious, for a full ten hours, and woke up with what felt like the worst hangover he'd ever had. Toby had decided he wanted breakfast immediately and was chewing on his ear. His phone, sitting on the bedside table, was ringing, and he fumbled to pick it up. "'llo?"

_I'm pretty sure I just slurred that._

"John, what's going on? Are you all right? Where the hell _are_ you?"

John groaned and pulled himself upright. There were no prizes for guessing who was ringing him at nine in the morning on a Sunday, wanting to know where he was. " _Harry_. I'm fine. I'm…" He shut his eyes, genuinely wondering where he was for several seconds. "I'm at Molly Hooper's."

"Bloody hell. It went _that_ well?"

"No, no it didn't." He put one hot, dry hand up to his forehead. It was way too complicated and embarrassing for him to explain to Harry that he'd gone into meltdown mode - in public - after someone had called Sherlock a...

Nope, he didn't even want to _think_ about that.

"Look," he said finally. "I've got to go, but I'm fine. Talk soon."

"John -"

"I've got to go. But I'm fine. Talk soon." He hung up on her, just as he heard a little squeak at his elbow. Before John could prevent him, Toby leapt back up onto his knees. He decided to change tactics and ignore the purring and face-butting. Instead, he went through his flooded phone inbox.

Harry, of course. Ten texts, six missed calls, and six voice messages ranging from "please call me" to incoherent rage. Texts from Mike: "Are you OK mate?" and "Where r you?". A totally unrelated text from Bill. Two "Hi, please call me" voice messages from Greg.

Well, he'd already shut Harry up, and Mike and Greg would have to live with a vague text of "I'm fine. Talk soon" for now. Because apart from anything else, John wasn't used to texting with a cat on his lap. Secondly, he felt like shit.

"Okay, get down, you." He gingerly put Toby on the floor and got up, pausing for a few seconds with his fingertips resting on the bedside table. Then he shuffled over to the door and opened it. In ordinary circumstances, it would be easy to find Molly in person. But just at that moment his legs were being uncooperative, and the stairs at the far end of the hall looked like a very bad idea. Molly had been downstairs when he'd called. After a few seconds, she appeared at the top of the stairs and stopped in alarm.

"Are you okay?"

Apparently, she'd never before seen someone trying not to fall off the floor.

"I'm fine," he said, despite this being the least fine he'd felt in a while.

"Do you need to sit down?"

"Might be an idea." He let her turn him around by the shoulders and steer him back to the bedroom. "Molly, if you're going to give me a benzodiazepine drug you could _warn_ me about it beforehand. For all you know I could be on something that conflicts with it."

Molly blinked. She hadn't known that John had been on Temazepam for two months after his return from Afghanistan, and was well familiar with it and all its glorious aftereffects. "Are you?"

"No. If I was, I wouldn't have kept drinking that cup of tea you gave me."

"How did you -"

"I'm guessing you've never taken it yourself, then."

"… No."

"You can taste it in just about anything." John scrubbed at his stinging eyes with his fingertips. "Jesus, how much did you give me?"

"20mg. You… you don't seem very angry with me..."

"I'm not." He sat back down on the mattress and resigned himself to Toby's attention again. "I needed the sleep. And after the night I treated you to, I'm sure you were fighting the urge to murder me by the time we got back here…" His gaze fell on an overnight bag in the corner. "How did my things get here?"

In the end, Lestrade had gone over to the flat to collect John's things, which explained why he'd tried to get in touch. _Great_ , John thought as shut the bathroom door behind himself, shivering out of the irreparably damaged nine-hundred-pound suit of legend and twisting the shower taps on. Now Greg was going to join in on the knowing little comments about staying the night at Molly's.

When he finally came downstairs, hair still wet, Molly had a cup of coffee waiting for him on the kitchen table. It was the first time he had seen that kitchen by daylight. It was a bright, airy little room, all canary-yellow paint and frothy muslin curtains, and without a single masculine touch about it.

"So…" He sat down. "What happened last night…"

"It's fine," she said softly.

"Oh, please." _It's fine._ The two words Molly had used time and again when Sherlock opened his big mouth on any topic more personal than the results of biopsies and autopsies and samples. "Please, will you _stop_ saying things are fine when they're not?" he said. "You've been looking forward to last night for a month. And if it doesn't rank up there with one of the worst evenings you've had in ages, then - and listen to me, I'm talking like it's your fault."

"It's not yours either," she said.

"Yeah, well. You'd think I'd be used to hearing that kind of thing by now..." John heard himself and flinched. And as if his childish meltdown hadn't been enough of a terrible time for Molly Hooper, he was now inflicting self-pity on her.

"No." Molly shook her head. "That was a new low, even for Claire."

John gave his attention to his coffee as a way of filling the awkward silence. Instant roast, cheap mug... oh, he was terrible at this kind of thing. Sherlock could use a cup of coffee to instantly find out every tiny thing about the person who had made it. "Anyway," he went on finally. "Terrible night. I'll make it up to you."

"Oh no, it's okay…" And hearing the word _okay_ she flushed and stopped, biting her lip in self-conscious confusion.

"Would it help if I told you I actually would _like_ to make it up to you?" He smiled weakly. "Humour me. We'll go out tonight."

She looked down at the shaking hand that held his cup of coffee. "If you're not -"

"I'll be fine in a couple of hours. We'll go out tonight."

Because repeating the same thing over and over seemed to work just fine for Molly.

* * *

Thanks largely to his exorbitant London rental agreement, John could rarely afford "Out" for himself, let alone a second person. And since he refused to allow Molly to contribute a penny to the outing, "out" became a train trip into the city, fish and chips, and then a walk along the Embankment that went for three hours.

There was no shadow of the evening before on either of them. Molly, although she'd known John for two years and they'd become much more friendly over the past couple of months, had never heard him talk so much. Anything and everything, from his taste in film (extremely traditional and not high-brow; he liked his explosions and car wrecks) to his thoughts on opera (boring) horses (loved them) and on 'that guy from Twilight', after walking past a poster of Robert Pattinson ('tosser. Sorry. But seriously, look at him').

In his turn, John had no idea before that she _laughed_ so much, nor that she knew more about art history than any self-respecting pathologist could be expected to, spoke Welsh, and had played competitive tennis in her teens, reaching the nationals before snapping her Achilles tendon and spending months laid up. In fact, she even thought Robert Pattinson was a 'tosser' as well, or at least never contradicted John's opinion on him.

"So you're not much of a fan of romance, then?" he asked her. Then, hearing himself, he backtracked in embarrassment. "I mean, romance novels. Rom coms. Stuff like that."

She smiled and shook her head. "No," she said. "Well, I used to read a lot of romance novels when I was younger. Now, murders. When I get time to read things that aren't for work."

John wondered why Molly would want to read up on murders when her job involved, among other things, post-mortem work. After all, thanks to his first hospital residency he hated hospital dramas ( _did these people ever actually do any work, or just spend their shifts angsting about their ridiculously complicated love-lives?_ ) But then, most of Molly's "clients" wouldn't be murder victims. "Any time for fun?" he asked lightly.

She looked up at him, as confused as if he'd suddenly started speaking in a foreign language.

"I mean," he said, " _apart_ from reading, and speaking Welsh to the cat."

"I… don't get a lot of time off work," she said.

He paused, noting her embarrassment. "Reading. Okay, got you on that one."

"I like reading."

"Well, that's not a crime," he said. "So do I." _But nobody went through books like Sherlock. He read the entire Harry Potter series in a couple of hours once... did I ever get around to writing up that case?_ "Do you not get lonely, though?"

He hadn't meant to ask that question - it had no good answer - and mentally hit himself for blurting it out. They'd reached the end of the promenade and come to an awkward halt under the halo of a streetlight; well enough light for him to see her confused expression.

Of course she was confused. She had a choice between saying, _No, I never get lonely because I am either a liar or a hermit,_ or _Yes, I get lonely and that's yet another reason I deserve your pity._

"Well…" she finally said. "Well, usually I don't have _time_ to get lonely. Just sort of pushing on, you know. And then there's Toby. He _almost_ talks back. You'd be surprised. Cats are good company."

John smiled. "Sorry," he said ruefully. "Bit personal."

"It's fine."

_"Molly."_

"It's not fine."

They were both smiling awkwardly by this time. "That's better," he said. "Wasn't trying to be rude. You've just seemed awfully concerned about whether _I'm_ lonely, and the thought occurred."

"Are you?" she asked. "Lonely, I mean."

"Not just at the moment, no."

"Good - I mean, um."

For a few seconds they both watched a ferry, festooned with blinking golden lights, coasting over the dark waters of the Thames.

Molly looked at her watch. "Half-past nine," she said regretfully. "I start at seven tomorrow, so… we should head back up to the station before I miss the train."

"Yes, I suppose we should be heading back -" And then, seeing her expression, John smiled. "My stuff is still at your place," he reminded her.

"Oh." She blushed. "Yes. Of course."

* * *

Molly talked all the way back from the railway station to the house - seemed determined to, John thought absently. Anything to prevent a silence, which was new; wandering up and down the Embankment earlier, both of them had been silent by turns and it hadn't felt awkward then. He didn't need to be Sherlock to deduce it: she was upset about that "lonely" business.

They'd barely left the train platform before she started off, chattering aimlessly at about six million miles an hour. By the time they turned into her street she'd slowed down a lot and was following a logical sequence, not just blurting out whatever random thought entered her head. John was beginning to suspect he might actually get a word in edgewise soon when, glancing up, something caught his eye. He stopped, lightly touching Molly's arm to get her attention.

"Just a second," he said, cutting her off mid-sentence.

"What is it?"

They were still four doors away from the house, but even in the dim light, Molly could see that her front door looked… odd, though she didn't immediately recognise why. John, more vigilant and with better eyesight, could see that the paint missing from the jamb and hinges, and the door itself was slightly ajar. "Unexpected visitors," he said. "You'd best call the police. And Greg, if he's available."

Molly gave a pained little gasp. "John," she said. "Toby's still in there -"

"I'm sure he's fine."

"But -"

"I'm sure he's fine," he repeated in the same low voice, his hand still resting on her arm.

* * *

As a matter of fact, John thought it likely that Toby was dead. Anybody who'd kick in a door to ransack a flat would probably not hesitate to get a tabby cat out of their way. He waited with Molly in the street for the police to arrive, since there was no point walking into what might have been an active crime scene without a weapon. When help arrived forty anxious minutes later, he was more surprised than anyone when a uniformed constable opened the battered door and Toby tore out like a bat out of hell. Surprised and, he had to admit, relieved _._ But of course, the last thing he needed to deal with was Molly upset about her cat.

Molly scooped Toby up and smothered him with kisses, like an anxious mother reunited with her child. John flinched, but he was far more interested in the break-in than anything else. By the time Lestrade, who was off-duty, also showed up to take a look it had been established that the intruders were long gone. There was little to do except take fingerprints and photographs. Lestrade was skeptical as to how effective these methods were going to be, though he waited until the rest of the police officers left before saying so.

"Whoever it was, they were looking for something," he said to Molly. "If this were an actual robbery, they'd have taken your telly, not smashed it. And they completely ignored valuable items that were right out in the open, like your jewelry."

"But hang on," John broke in. "If someone was looking for something… why smash anything? There was no need for that, they were just making a mess. Vandalism. Typical home invasion."

Lestrade shook his head. "Made to _look_ like a home invasion. Molly, do you need me to call someone? I can arrange somewhere for you to stay if you don't want to be here tonight."

Molly glanced at John.

"Do you want me to stay with you?" he asked her.

"If it's not too -"

"Done. We can review things in the clear light of day."

"Always a good idea." Lestrade looked at John, who immediately remembered he had to call his sister and follow up the day's events, and that he had to make this phone call from the privacy of the spare bedroom. After he'd retreated up the staircase, Lestrade dropped his shoulders. "Molly, I'm not an idiot," he said. "What were they looking for?"

She paused.

"Are you in some kind of trouble? Did they find what they were looking for?"

Silence. For a second, Molly felt like giving up - blurting it out and getting the police to sort this out. Lestrade would believe her - or would he? Just how was she meant to say ' _I think someone found out Sherlock is alive. He was here last night, and I think they came here looking for him'?_

"Molly. You know you can trust me, right? This doesn't have to be a police matter, but if you're in trouble, if there's someone you're afraid of, I need to know. I won't tell John. Or anyone else. It'll just be between you and me."

Sherlock's safety depended on secrecy...

"Nothing was taken," she said softly.

"Molly -"

"Nothing was taken."

* * *

"You're up early."

Sherlock was rarely out of bed before ten o'clock, primarily so he didn't have to run into Mycroft in his dressing gown and in all his undercaffeinated glory. But the morning after the break-in at Molly Hooper's flat Mycroft, coming down at seven, found his little brother sitting at the breakfast table, reading the paper over a cup of coffee.

"Yes. Had a call from Molly Hooper," Sherlock said absently.

"Did you now?"

Sherlock flicked the paper down petulantly. "Yes, and when I said 'Mycroft, I think she's going to tell John I'm alive, you'd better do something to stop her doing that', I did _not_ mean 'send the Secret Service over to her house to rifle her drawers, smash her belongings, and terrorise her cat.' "

"I've no doubt at all that the cat terrorised _them,_ Sherlock."

"For God's sake -"

"How is she this morning?"

"She's fine. Not that you care." Sherlock folded his paper and slapped it down on the table. "John stayed the night to valiantly protect her. And you needn't look so amused about that, either. Lestrade's also been over. He's noticed that it wasn't your ordinary break-in and has been asking some pretty pertinent questions, or so she says. By scaring her into not telling John, you might just have scared her into blurting out everything she knows to Lestrade."

"Oh, I don't think she'll do that. So John's valiantly protecting her now? Well, well. That's very decent of him, isn't it? Not jealous, are we?"

"Shut up, Mycroft." Sherlock reached out blindly for his coffee, wincing as it scalded his mouth.

"Molly asked me to help John, so I rather thought this was a neat solution to both problems." Mycroft shrugged. "I certainly don't think you need to worry about her saying anything to Lestrade. Now if you'll excuse me, some of us have a job to go to."

"Without your morning coffee? Maybe you should leave your umbrella at home today. Or at least take an umbrella that's an actual umbrella. We can't have murder before morning tea time."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and stalked out without a further word.

"'Shut up, Mycroft'? Interesting.


	7. Chapter 7

Mrs Hudson had put tinsel on Sherlock's grave.

To be fair to her, the culprit _could_ have been Lestrade (and high time, John thought, that he paid Sherlock back for his dickery last Christmas, too.) But he knew, somehow, that this wasn't from Greg's sense of grim fun; it was from the considerable depths of Mrs Hudson's well-meaning heart.

And it was absolutely hilarious. He'd stopped short on seeing the display, taking it in for a few seconds; then, to his own surprise, he'd started _giggling_ about it. Sherlock, who had spent last Christmas being as unfestive as possible, had just had his own grave sabotaged with sickening levels of Christmas cheer. And he was somewhere, John believed, where he knew it but could do absolutely nothing about it.

It had been two weeks since Molly's house had been broken into, and John had gone to the cemetery because he wanted to 'talk to Sherlock' about something odd that had happened. He didn't quite know _how_ it had happened, but one night 'valiantly protecting' Molly had turned into two nights, then a week. And two weeks later, he was still living with her.

Over the previous six months John had been often to the gravesite, sometimes in silence, sometimes full of things to tell Sherlock or with something to put on his grave. Flowers, never. Sometimes a cigarette, or a newspaper cutting of a crime he'd found interesting. Today he was empty handed, but ready to talk to the headstone bearing Sherlock's name about his current weird domestic situation, and about Christmas. Because even though Sherlock was dead, Christmas was going to happen.

"I don't know what Molly did last year, but I can't leave her at the house on her own," he said. "So she's coming with me to Harry's. Yeah, I know"- as if Sherlock had responded - "recipe for disaster. I'm not sure I've got much of a choice, you know? And, um, Bill's invited me to his place for New Year, and I think a couple of the other guys will be there too, so I guess we'll be going to that." John didn't even try to justify to a dead man why he felt compelled to take Molly to a New Year's party that she'd not explicitly been invited to. "And… it's a bit weird, how all this happened. I mean, she hasn't told me to go home yet, so… I don't know, Sherlock. It's… nice having someone around."

Molly, in turn, thought it was rather nice that _she_ had someone around. If she thought that John was going to neatly fulfill all traditionally masculine household duties she was mistaken, though. She worked, he didn't. He cooked, she disposed of spiders. He took care of his own laundry and would have been mortified if she'd offered to do it, nor did he make any attempts to handle _her_ underwear, thank you very much indeed.

It took both of them the whole fortnight to put the place back in order after the break-in, since there was a lot of broken glass about the place, and the insurance company were slow to replace the damaged goods. There were no repeat incidents, and even through evenings of hoovering up broken glass and cleaning carpets, Molly never mentioned the incident ever again. Nor did she ever make any reference to the fact that after promising to stay the night, John was still living at the house and showing no signs of leaving.

One of them was going to have to address things. John assumed that it was going to be himself, but on the day before Christmas Eve, Molly greeted him on her return from work with, "John, I was thinking about this today, and wondering if you'd like to move in? Properly?"

John was floored. Not just because she'd asked it, but because she'd done so without any "but" or "um" or "well". Without any backpedaling or embarrassed pauses or blushing or shame. He looked at her in silence for a few seconds, then cleared his throat.

"Yeah," he heard himself say. "Yeah, good. I'd like that. Thanks."

* * *

The keys to the godawful place in Bethnal Green were due to be sent back on the second of January. Mycroft had helpfully paid up the rent and there was nothing much to be moved between locations, so there was no urgency about it. John quickly became the official resident of Molly's pink-and-silver wallpapered spare room.

"I've got to tell you," Harry said over the phone on the night he moved in officially, "I'm still not happy about the secrecy, John. I need to know where my own brother lives. What if there's an emergency?"

"I know where _you_ live." John sighed. "Look… I just… need a bit of privacy just now, Harry."

"So you've gone from living on your own to having a new housemate... because you're desperate for some privacy?"

"You know exactly what I meant."

"You meant 'Harry, get out of my business.'"

"Yeah, I did, but I didn't mean it in _that_ tone of voice. Look, Christmas. We're still coming around for Christmas, provided Molly hasn't had enough of me and kicked me out by then. We'll talk about it then. In the meantime, stop pestering Greg to give you the GPS coordinates for my phone. Do you have any idea how _illegal_ that is?"

* * *

At seven on Christmas Eve, Lestrade came around to the house. This was not meant to happen. He was supposed to have Hayley and Matthew for Christmas Eve, and John knew this because he'd been talking it up for a month.

"They, um," he said, hands in his pockets, when John gently brought this up. "Well, I'm at a bit of a loose end, really. Turns out they're not keen on spending tonight at mine after all."

Molly muttered something about having a phone call to make and retreated into the kitchen, and Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Oh, hell," he groaned. "I didn't mean she had to leave, it's _her_ house."

"Are you okay, Greg?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." More than anything, Lestrade looked bewildered. He rubbed his palm across his forehead for a second. "Just… disappointed, you know? Things got said. On both sides. It… wasn't the best."

"I can imagine." Lestrade had hinted before that neither Hayley nor Matthew had much time for him following the marriage breaking down; also that neither of them had a problem showing it. Lestrade was not easy to provoke into anger, but he wasn't made of stone either, and could be cutting when he wanted to be. John knew that his children's contempt hurt him. "But you know those kids don't hate you, right? I think that once they accept that giving you a hard time isn't going to get you and Julie back together and everyone's better off for it in the long run, this will smooth over. Plus, you know, I'm pretty sure every fifteen-year-old girl thinks she hates her father." He paused. "Harry hated _everybody_ when she was that age."

By the time Molly ventured back into the room John had turned the television on. He and Greg were mercilessly snarking Carols From King's, and definitely not discussing sensitive topics like ex-wives and deceased friends. Toby had tried to climb into John's lap again, but John wasn't having any _cat_ on his lap while he had company over, and had promptly and firmly removed him. As a result, the disgruntled tabby was registering his feelings of rejection by attacking low-hanging ornaments on the Christmas tree. John had 'punished' him for it the day before - if you could call picking him up, muttering "bloody cat" and putting him back down on the sofa a punishment.

"Would either of you like a drink?" Molly asked.

Lestrade looked at John. "What are we drinking tonight?"

"I'm drinking coffee… practicing for tomorrow." John was referring to his dry Christmas with Harry the next day. "If you can find it, and it's not Molly's, you can drink it. Toby, _stop_ it or I'm going to put you outside in the snow…"

This was a bluff and everyone knew it, even Toby. It wasn't snowing outside, and as much as John was not a "cat person", he couldn't let an animal of any kind suffer. Molly ducked back into the kitchen, but Greg fidgeted. John had just casually threatened to discipline Molly's child, and Molly hadn't even blinked about it.

"Listen," he muttered, fiddling with his watch. "You and Molly…"

"There _is_ no 'me and Molly', Greg."

"… Are you sure about that?"

"Absolutely sure."

Lestrade paused. "Okay," he said, in the same _yeah-sure-okay_ tone he would use on a suspect caught red-handed who didn't have a lawyer yet. "If that's what's happening - or not happening - okay. But I just wanted to let you know that if things start to look like… there might _be_ a you and Molly after all, you wouldn't be treading on my toes, you know?"

"It's not _you_ I'm worried about - Jesus, what am I saying?"

"Are you saying," Greg said slowly, "that you'd be a bit more keen if you didn't think it was doing in Sherlock? Because I really don't think he'd have minded."

John had been staring immovably at the television, but he turned his head and looked at Lestrade without emotion for a few seconds. "Greg, it's Christmas. Please don't talk to me about Sherlock."

"Right. Okay. Sorry."

* * *

Harry had been gushing to her brother all week about finally being able to meet Molly, and totally impervious to his begging her to cut it out with the knowing tone of voice while she did it. Molly had been looking forward to the whole thing right up until Christmas morning. Then she went into a quiet meltdown over what to wear, how to wear it; her hair was wrong, were these the right shoes? Apart from the obvious (alcohol, Clara) was there anything she shouldn't mention in front of Harry? Because she knew she was terrible at having conversations and worse at telling jokes and she was always saying the wrong thing to everyone…

John was more than relieved when they picked up Greg - a last-minute but welcome guest, given the drama in the broken Lestrade household - and Molly calmed down. Even if he knew _why_ she'd calmed down: this was not a 'thing' and definitely not a 'date', because Greg was there. And nobody takes Greg Lestrade on their things, and they especially don't take him on their dates.

~o0o~

 

"I like her," was Harry's opinion. "A lot. Try not to fuck _this_ one up, okay?"

"Harry!"

"I'll swear as much as I fucking like in my own fucking home," she said cheerfully, just to get her brother going. It was just after what had been a surprisingly pleasant and well-behaved dinner. Harry had always been polite toward but slightly distrustful of Lestrade, whom she'd first met while arrangements were being made for her grieving brother to find somewhere to live after Sherlock's death. But, to John's everlasting surprise and something approaching horror, Harry and Molly got along like a house on fire. He would never have suspected two utterly different women could get along so well and so quickly. He'd felt rather ganged up on, even though Harry hadn't made good on her repeated threats to bring out his baby photos or stories from his teen years. Yet.

Harry had gone to do the washing up, even though she had a dishwasher, and insisted her brother leave the guests to their own devices in the living room so that he could help out. "And besides," she continued, "if you don't want me pointing out how many of your relationships you've managed to fuck up, you could always stop fucking them up. And don't just pounce on my language and ignore my point."

"Your point? Is your point that I should date someone I'm not interested in because _you_ like her?"

"No, my point is that you should date someone you're oh-so-clearly interested in because _you_ like her. Do you regularly move in with people you don't like?"

 _I sort of did, once._ "Now hang on. I didn't mean I don't _like_ her. Stop putting words into my mouth, you're making me sound like -"

"You're doing a fine job of that without my help, brother dear."

"Has everyone gone mad? Why does everyone think I should -" John abruptly lowered his voice. In the living room, Molly was laughing at something Greg was saying or doing. Luckily, it seemed that she hadn't heard him. Harry raised her eyebrows.

"Everyone? And just who, pray, is _everyone?"_

"Mrs Hudson, for a start." John was still vaguely embarrassed about the conversation he'd had with Lestrade the evening before, so he wasn't about to mention it. "You heard her. She heard about the Barts Christmas party and came to the conclusion that we were getting married or something."

Harry smiled. She'd already heard Mrs Hudson's thoughts about John and Molly. Had discussed them with her at length, in fact. "She just wants you to be happy," she said. "So do I, believe it or not."

"Yeah, well, I want _Molly_ to be happy, which she wouldn't be if we…" He broke off.

Harry laid her hand on John's shoulder for a second, ignoring his flinch. "John, despite what you seem to think, you are _not_ damaged beyond repair," she said. "Let's not pretend that you're at your best just now, but you've had one hell of a year. You're _grieving."_

"Don't."

"Sorry, but I'm getting tired of tiptoeing around the subject. Just why do we all have to keep ignoring the fact that you watched your best friend commit suicide?"

_"Harry-"_

"Well, you did. And it was only six months ago. And that on its own is enough for anybody to not be a ray of sunshine _all_ the time. If Molly's still letting you live at her house, she likes you more than she'll admit, or that you're far less obnoxious than you think. Either way, that's a good thing, isn't it?"

"If you like Molly so much, why don't you marry her?" John retorted rather cruelly.

"I'm not sure Helen would appreciate that much," Harry said, unperturbed. She had been in a relationship with Helen for the past month. Helen was spending Christmas with her own family, however. Harry had a sneaking suspicion that they hadn't been told about her yet.

"Listen, your sisterly concern for the state of my romantic life is heartwarming, truly, but I don't need any help with that."

"You two would be _so_ suited…"

"Harry, _stop._ Now."

Harry washed dishes in silence for a few minutes. "Okay," she said finally. "Can you and Greg set up the living room in order and find a game to play? _Not_ Monopoly. You know I always lose at that."

It was only when he'd gone out to do so that John realised that he'd been played. There was no way Molly was going to let Harry get along with the kitchen business on her own. When he left the kitchen, she promptly excused herself and went into it, and there was nothing he could do to stop her without making things worse. For her part, poor Molly suspected nothing as she went into the kitchen.

"Hello," she said pleasantly. "Can I help?"

"You absolutely can." Harry took the pudding out and pointed to the cupboard where the dessert bowls were kept. "Could you please get some plates out? Oh, and Molly. As it happens, we need to talk about John…"

* * *

Although he was at first glance deeply involved in rearranging furniture and finding a board game that Harry would be sure to lose at (as John had instructed him), Greg had his suspicions that the conversations he was being blatantly left out of may have been leaning toward a certain topic. "What's going on?" he asked John.

"What we talked about last night," John said. "Or rather, what _you_ talked about last night."

_"Oh. "_

"Don't."

"I didn't say anything. Though I'm sure Harry's going to say plenty."

"Does _your_ sister carry on like this?"

"Neither of mine do." John had been referring to the sister in Sidcup but had forgotten all about the one in Cornwall. "But my mother does... she's been more fun than ever since the divorce."

And that, John knew, was why Lestrade would have preferred to spend Christmas on his own that year than at his sister Pam's, since Pam was their eighty-two year old mother's full-time carer.

* * *

Meanwhile, Harry had taken only a couple of seconds to outline her opinion of the situation to Molly. Molly's eloquent response was to simply looked _confused,_ as if Harry had suggested she should make romantic overtures toward Toby.

"I realise John's not perfect," Harry said. "I don't think there's a soul alive who knows _better_ how he's not perfect. He's passive aggressive, he sulks, he can be a real martyr, and he likes the view from the moral high ground. But you know, he does have a lot of _good_ points. I'm forced to say it, even though he _is_ my brother. He's sober and reliable and decent and loyal and resourceful and would always be good to you, even if that involved being a passive-aggressive sulky martyr. And just so you know, I've also heard it from more than one authority that he's quite good at sex."

Molly suddenly looked so mortified that Harry almost regretted that last point.

"Well, I'm just trying to be helpful," she backed up defensively. "If I was considering someone who was rubbish at sex, _I'd_ appreciate fair warning. I'm just saying, it might be worth giving him a chance."

"But… but what sort of chance could I give him?" Molly honestly wanted to know. "I mean, it's not like that. He's just John. A friend."

"Have you checked that he's on the same page as you on this, Molly?"

As Molly's late father would have expressed it, Satan had more likelihood of ice skating to work than Molly had of asking John if he was interested in dating her. Harry knew it. But she was secretly amused at Molly's bewildered expression as she went back into the living room, and of the exasperated look on John's face when he noticed it, too.

Their game of Trivial Pursuit was played; Molly won, which meant that World War Three was averted between the Watson siblings. In all it was as pleasant a Christmas afternoon as any of them had had in years, Harry's meddling notwithstanding. But Molly, who had been more talkative with Harry over dinner than John thought he'd ever seen her, had gone a little quiet again. And once they'd dropped Lestrade back off at his flat - they'd invited him back to the house, but he'd said he was heading off to see Pam in Sidcup after all - Molly said not a word the entire way back to the house. John wasn't used to reading the finer points of body language, but this was unmistakable. Molly was embarrassed, and self-conscious, and _damn it_ thanks to Harry, he was going to have to say something.

"Molly," he said once they'd got home, Molly had greeted Toby like they'd been parted for years, and he'd made coffee. "I've got to ask... did Harry say something… awkward to you in the kitchen today?"

Molly had been giving her attention to Toby, but at this she looked up at him.

"Because," he went ahead recklessly, "she was saying all sorts of awkward things to me. About you."

"Me?"

"Yeah. So I thought I'd say something so we didn't have to pretend it never happened. Look, I'm sure Harry means well, but you haven't looked at me properly since then. I'd say she outdid herself this time?"

"She said I should 'give you a chance.'"

"Okay," he said, crossing his arms without realising it. "Okay. That's sort of the politer version of what she said to me. About you, I mean."

He did not know, and never _would_ know, that Harry had told Molly that he was reported to be 'quite good at sex' and he certainly did not know that Molly had been secretly wondering for the past two hours what, specifically, was meant by this phrase.

"What do you think?" he asked. "About what she said?"

"Oh. Well… I sort of… " She bit her lip, and for a second, John thought maybe… "You're _John,_ you know, and we're friends… just friends, though…"

John nodded. "Yes," he said. "Yes, my thoughts exactly. So… this isn't going to be awkward, then? Harry got the wrong end of things. Business and New Year as usual?"

"Yes… yes, of course."

This was the last said of the matter. However, as he went to bed that night (the first night in over two weeks that he hadn't had to share his sleeping space with the bloody cat) John couldn't brush off a vague feeling of embarrassment. He wasn't sure quite how it had happened, but he felt that, somehow, he'd asked Molly out that night. And been rejected.


	8. Chapter 8

This one had no eyes. They found it in Highgate Cemetery.

It was a volunteer groundskeeper who had found the body this time, and not some poor sod out walking the dog. He was remarkably calm; but then, Lestrade thought, he volunteers at a cemetery for fun, so he probably had either nerves of steel or a screw loose somewhere. More than anything, he seemed angry that whoever had killed this guy had done so after hours, and had somehow managed to get himself and his victim inside the locked cemetery gates. The cheek! Murder on a heritage listed site! And now half the Met traipsing all over the delicate flora. Identifying Lestrade as the person in charge, he glared at him a lot, as if he suspected Lestrade's first action would be to order the whole Rossetti clan to be dug up. Just, you know, for _fun_.

The name "Rossetti" meant very little to Lestrade and he certainly didn't care about the big-name burials at Highgate. The only corpse he was worried about was the one who'd been murdered and dumped on the eastern slope. Definitely another murder. Suicides and accidents don't end up with no eyes, no hands, and a smashed in face and throat.

"Like the other one?" Gifford asked him. She'd read Anderson's reports on the one found in the park.

Lestrade nodded, watching her with admiration as she knelt on a tarp next to the body, perfectly at ease. She had a trainee with her that day. Lestrade, along with everyone else, had immediately forgotten his name, but he was a roly-poly university student with a stuffy nose and an eager-to-please attitude. Gifford was letting him take photographs as a way of encouraging him to look at what he was doing properly. Smart woman, Gifford. Patience of a saint; she checked the corpse and the surrounding area no less than _nine_ times before she had to admit it: no drag marks. No footprints. No meaningful blood trails. No semen.

It wasn't just that Anderson was an idiot, then (although he was, undoubtedly, an idiot.) Although a third corpse had to turn up somewhere before they could start using the official terminology, it was clear to everyone: serial killer.

And he was a _clever_ bastard.

* * *

Once all the fun with the corpse had been had and it had been bagged and taken for post-mortem, everyone on Lestrade's team knew that it was all press statements and paperwork from hereon in.

But first, a briefing. Greg Lestrade's team briefings were the stuff of legend, and how legendary they were depended on what time of day it was, how much caffeine he'd had, and what was going on on the home front. Sometimes it was a professional twenty-minute speech. On one memorable occasion it was, "We found a dead guy this morning. Find out who did it. Preferably, today."

"I realise," he started with on this particular case, "that none of us particularly want to be investigating a murder between Christmas and New Year, and that you all think you've got better things to do with the holidays. And I agree. Except I reckon that the poor guy we found with his eyeballs neatly gouged out didn't particularly want to be murdered between Christmas and New Year, and had better things to do with the holidays than be horribly killed. It'd be nice if murders were timed to be a bit more convenient, but they aren't."

"Do we know who he is yet, sir?"

"Not a clue. DNA is being run. No fingerprints or dental records, like the last one. Murtagh, I need you and Halloran to check the Missing Person's Register. Thompson, Barber, Jones - door knocking. Work your way out. Ask if anyone saw or heard something unusual after dark last night to sun-up this morning. Castelli, Donovan, Patel, Shepherd - you four back down to the cemetery. No members of the public should have been in that cemetery since well before Christmas, so I want you to comb it over and record anything at all that shows someone's been there, right down to how many bent blades of grass you can find. Nothing at all left out, clear?"

Castelli, Donovan, Patel and Shepherd were Lestrade's least favourite colleagues, though he tried not to shift the dirty work on to them often enough that it became obvious.

"Which part of the cemetery?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Well, I'd like you to concentrate around where we found the body," he said in tones one might use when talking to a toddler. Evidently he was low on caffeine just then. "Work your way out from that point. Look everywhere." _And have fun with those creepy bloody statues staring at you the whole time._

"The whole cemetery?" This was Castelli, who always sounded like he was whining even on the odd occasion when he wasn't.

"All of it."

"Sir, that'll take _days_." Castelli again.

"Yes, it will." Lestrade tried not to sound delighted at the prospect of getting rid of his team jetsam for a few days. "And the sooner you start, the sooner you'll finish. I don't want you to do a shoddy job of it, either. Be alert and observant. Do the best you can."

"What a pity Freak's not here to help us," Donovan muttered.

And to Lestrade's everlasting astonishment, that was when he turned on her. "What did you say, Donovan?"

Donovan straightened her shoulders. "Nothing."

"No, I heard what you said. I'm giving you a chance to own up to it. Repeat it, please, so we can all hear."

"I said, 'what a pity Freak's not here'."

"Thank you. And I'm going to go ahead and assume that by 'Freak' you meant 'Sherlock Holmes'?"

"Yes, sir."

"So you were complaining about the fact that we don't have the man _you believe kidnapped and poisoned two kids_ around to help us solve a homicide. Is that correct?"

"Sir -"

"Go home, Donovan."

Silence.

"Sir…?"

"I don't want to see you today. And I doubt I'll want to see you tomorrow, either. Come back when you've readjusted your attitude. Or-" before Donovan could say "Sir" again- "you can go tattle to Dawson again, whichever you prefer. Tell him I'm bullying you because I don't permit you to refer to a dead man never charged with a crime as "Freak." Off you go."

_She'll do it, too. And she can see if I care._

* * *

"And so there's me, right, at four in the morning, drunk as hell, wearing lipstick, trying to tell poor old Watson that I needed help 'cause a dog had just bitten a chunk out of my leg…"

Bill considered this to be an ordinary topic of conversation.

It had been two years since John and Bill had last been in the same physical space together. Bill was technically a nurse with the RAMC, though most people had called him a "medic" and he'd always done the same. Before the painful circumstances that had brought John back to England, he and John had worked closely together. Bill had arrived back three months after John, having fulfilled _his_ contract without having holes shot in him.

He was full of anecdotes about Afghanistan, ranging from the hilarious to the horrible, and after a few drinks he was absolutely willing - no, _determined -_ to share them. All of them. John had been spending forty minutes wondering what he was going to do if Bill started to... talk about when "all that" happened. He didn't want Molly to hear that story. Not yet, anyway.

Bill and Laura Murray's New Year get together was in full swing - it was eleven o'clock - but John was wondering if he was even going to make it to midnight. He was feeling horribly guilty over it. Most of these people were "the guys" and their wives and girlfriends. They were _his_ guys. He'd saved their lives, and Bill, at least, had saved his. He... owed them. Or something. But it had been two years since he'd seen them, and now he realised that he wasn't even sure he _liked_ them.

In a way, deployment was a bit like school camp. You had people around you that you thought were your best friends. Got close. Clung to them, because there was nobody else. Then, when you came back to reality, you realised you didn't love them so very much; you just hated them less than some of the others. And you certainly weren't going to make any particular effort to see them in person during your gap year.

Bill was a good bloke, and was always pleasant enough. John knew he _really_ owed Bill, even if he was just then being loud and obnoxious. But Dan, Tyler, Brad? He could happily have lived out the rest of his days without having to find something to talk about with them. He'd forgotten, over the last couple of years, that Dan was one of the most irritatingly dense people he'd ever met, and that Brad was one of the most racist. And if the company wasn't ordinary enough, he was now really, really tired of having to explain to everyone that Molly was not, in fact, his girlfriend.

Oh, Molly. She was miserable.

She didn't dance; she didn't particularly drink. She had it in her head that she was terrible at making conversation and even worse at making jokes, so she'd been curled up on the sofa nursing a drink and saying next to nothing all night. She was hating every minute of this. She knew in advance that she'd hate it. And she'd said yes to going anyway.

She'd bought a new dress for the occasion and spent three hours getting ready. She'd left the house looking and feeling great, and on seeing twenty strangers she'd instantly shrank so far back into her shell that she'd been hugging John's coat to her for the past two hours.

It was quite horrible, really. She looked so _pretty_ , and she'd gone to so much effort. John felt that constantly telling people she wasn't his girlfriend was somehow insulting, but he wasn't sure how she'd take it if he declined to set the record straight. He didn't care what these people thought, but _she_ might...

Yes. He _did_ care what people thought. If he didn't, he wouldn't have dragged Molly to this thing. This wasn't a date, or even a friendly outing - it was him using her as a prop. He'd insulted her. Treated her like an escort that he hadn't bothered to pay for.

_Yeah, you're absolutely charming, John Watson._

"Speaking of dogs, we had this dog at Fort Bastion," Bill started up again.

John groaned inwardly. _God, no. Please, no. Don't tell this story..._

"Mutt named Sheba, used to follow this one around, mostly." He gestured at John. "She obviously found herself a boyfriend, because then there's four puppies, right? But she'd hidden them somewhere and smart dog for it, too. All well and good until she got hit by a jeep one afternoon. Accident - ugly one."

Silence.

"Bill," John broke in quietly. "I don't think this story -"

"Well." Bill ignored him. "There was nothing we could do about Sheba. But she still had puppies somewhere, right? And when he heard what happened, Watson had me and Brian Toller and Luke and... someone else, I think it was Tim Blanchard - we spent the _whole afternoon_ searching around for those bloody puppies, because Watson couldn't bear the thought of them starving to death."

A round of gentle, sympathetic laughter. John was too busy sinking down in his chair in embarrassment to notice that Molly was _not_ laughing. She was looking at him in shy but earnest admiration.

"Did you find them?" she asked. "The puppies, I mean."

"Oh, yeah," Bill said. "If we hadn't found them at sunset I'm sure he would have made us get the torches out and work in the dark. Found them in a crawlspace under the foundation of the mess hall. Of course, Watson was first in the trench, probably because he was the only one small enough to fit under there…"

If John had slipped any further down in his chair, he'd probably have fallen onto the floor.

"And did they… make it?" Molly asked.

"Yeah, they did," John muttered. "And last I heard, they're all still there."

One of the worst things about his wounding and emergency evacuation was that he'd never had the opportunity to even say goodbye to anyone, dog or man. One minute he'd been perfectly fine, on patrol. After that his memories were few, and all were shaky. Sound and fury. Harris with half his face blown off. Then he thought he'd tripped. Bill yelling at him that he'd been shot and to stay still. He'd tried to get up anyway; Bill had hit him. _Please, God, let me live._ A sharp, brief flash of scissors, and the sting of a hypodermic needle that had made everything feel like being submerged in warm water. Being wet. _Drowning._ Something to do with… snow? No, that had clearly never happened. _Watson, if you die I'm going to kill you..._

And then waking up a week later. In hospital. In _Staffordshire_.

"Good old Captain Watson," Bill said, smiling. "Never leave a man behind, even if it's a dog…"

This time John really _did_ shoot Bill a look that could have stopped a clock. Bill, realising he'd come far too close to telling _that_ anecdote, looked flustered for a second. But before he could back up and make things worse, John's phone rang.

Harry. Harry was calling him at eleven p.m. on New Year's Eve.

"Excuse me, sorry. I have to take this," he muttered. He got up, awkwardly making his way through the crowded room and going into the hall before answering. At first, there was silence down the line. And then, a familiar sound.

_Oh, God no. No. Not again…_

"Harry, what's wrong? Why are you crying?"

Molly, who had seen the look on John's face when he'd recognised the incoming number, had left her spot on the sofa and followed him out into the hall. John met her gaze for a few seconds as Harry sobbed into the receiver.

"I'm so _sorry_ … Helen was supposed to come around and when she called and said she -"

"Harry, how much have you had to drink?"

"I don't know!"

"Are you safe?"

Sobbing.

"Harry, are you safe? Do you need an ambulance? The police?"

"I'm so sorry…"

"Look, stop crying; that's not going to help. I'm coming over, okay? Stay where you are and try to calm down and keep out of trouble until I get there. Deep breaths. I'll be there soon."

"What's happened?" Molly asked softly as John hung up the phone.

"Looks like New Year finally got the better of her," he said. "I think she's had a row with Helen. Definitely had a few drinks."

"Is she all right? Can I help?"

"She'll be fine. This isn't the first time. But I've got to go out there just in case. I'm sorry."

"Do you want me to come with you?"

He paused, looking at her as if she'd suddenly lost her mind. "No," he finally said gently. "No, I don't think it's a good idea. I know you and Harry get on, but she's drunk and upset and she can be… not herself sometimes when she's like this. If you're having a good time here you're welcome to stay. I don't think I'll be back at the house in time for midnight."

Molly nodded. "I think I'll stay," she said, "if that's all right?"

"Go ahead. I'll see you back at the house later. Happy New Year."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd forgotten I even had this account. Oops. Carrying on... thank you for the comments/kudos, I love them x

It was worse than John had expected. On top of having had seven straight vodkas, Harry had made things even worse when, trying to fill up on water to sober up before her brother arrived, she'd dropped a glass at her bare feet and then stepped in it. There was blood all over the kitchen floor and a trail of it leading into the living room, where Harry was huddled in the armchair. She was crying, and with good reason; there was blood all over her foot, her hands and the seat of the armchair.

"Oh, _Harry_. Jesus, what have you done to yourself?" John rushed over to her. "Give me a look…"

"I s-stepped in glass," she sobbed.

"You certainly did. You don't do anything by halves, do you?"

John didn't have to ask where the First Aid kit was. He'd retrieved it more than once before, since Harry tended to self-destruct in more ways than one when she was in a state. And, as he knew from past occasions, she did not take kindly to being tended.

"It hurts!"

"Yeah, I know," was the unsympathetic response, though John was tweezing tiny shards of glass out of the wound as gently as possible. "That's what happens when you step on broken - _Harry."_ This as Harry flinched and pulled her foot away. "Let me do this, or you're going to have to get someone else to do it. In the A&E. And if there's a place you _don't_ want to be on New Year's Eve, it's hospital."

"But it hurts!" Harry usually regressed when she was drunk.

"Yeah, I'm sure it does." _Try getting shot sometime._ "You can cry and yell and swear at me all you like, but just stay still. You don't need stitches. Yet. Be brave."

Harry said nothing for a few minutes, though she still flinched and whimpered in a way John thought was overdramatic.

"There you go," he said when he'd finally got all the glass out, cleaned the wound and was rummaging around in the First Aid box for something to dress it with. "Try to keep off it for a few days, okay?"

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "John..."

"What?"

"Why don't you like me?"

John looked at his sister for a few moments; his twin sister, who was in so many ways so much like himself.

"I don't know," he finally said. "I don't know."

"I'm sorry that Dad was such a bastard to you," she said. "I'm sorry… that you got hurt in Afghanistan. And I'm sorry that it hurt you when I left Clara -"

"Harry, shut up. None of those things were your fault."

"And I'm so, _so_ sorry that you lost your best friend. I really am. If I could have saved him for you by cutting off one of my hands I would have done it. I've done everything I could to get you to like me. I just don't know what you want from me, John. I don't know what you want or I'd do it… I tried to help you when you came home from Afghanistan -"

"I know you did."

"And now you never will like me, because I started drinking again-"

"Harry… _Harriet._ " He took her wrist, not ungently. "No… no. Listen, God, _no_. We don't get on because we're different, okay? We're different. But let me tell you this: I'm out here at your place with your foot in my lap because I love you, okay? And that's more important than _liking_ you. And you don't have to do anything to get me to love you. Or stop doing anything."

"... Why doesn't that _fucking bitch Helen_ ever say things like that to me?!"

John hadn't laughed with Harry in _years._ It felt good, even if Harry was drunk, bleeding, and nearly kicked him in the face.

* * *

"What happened, Bill?"

Bill had been searching around in his fridge for more champagne. He looked up cheerfully, bottle in one hand and corkscrew in the other, to see Molly standing hesitantly just inside the doorway. "What happened when?" he asked.

"In Afghanistan. When John was… hurt." Molly had it in her head that John had been shot, but since they had never discussed the matter, "hurt" was going to have to suffice for now.

Bill put the bottle down. "You don't know?" He wasn't particularly put off by John labelling Molly a "friend", and couldn't see why someone who, to him, was so obviously a _girlfriend_ wouldn't have already heard the story. "He's probably going to kill me for telling you."

"I'll handle it."

Bill had only known quiet, self-effacing Molly Hooper for a few hours, but he had absolutely no doubt that "Watson's Girlfriend" was well capable of handling it.

"We were set upon by insurgents," he said. "I can't talk about the circumstances or the place, sorry. There's... laws against talking about that kind of thing, um. It all came out of nowhere, really, we weren't expecting..." He cleared his throat. "It was supposed to be routine, not dangerous. Anyway. There was this… kid, Josh Harris, who didn't get to cover in time. He was only twenty, poor sod. I guess Watson felt responsible for him. We all did, really, but..."

Bill didn't need to explain it. John felt responsible for _everyone._

"If you want all the gory details, I really don't know about those. I was busy trying not to get shot myself. I think Harris might have just gone into shock and stood there until he got hit. Which took about four seconds." He paused, suddenly absorbed in the label on the champagne bottle.

"And then…?"

"And then Watson lost his _fucking mind_ \- excuse me, his mind - and went out to him under fire. Stupidest thing in the world. Nothing he could've done for for Harris... but I suppose he wasn't thinking clear either. He lasted about four seconds before being hit as well. Had a hell of a time getting _him_ back to cover."

Molly was silent.

"Puts a bit of a dampener on your New Year. Sorry."

"I asked. What happened then?"

"Harris was dead. I think he was killed instantly. As for - John -" Bill rarely called him anything other than 'Watson', but he'd heard Molly address him by his first name - "I don't think he remembers anything that happened after that. His shoulder was pretty much mincemeat. Punched a hole straight through his deltoid muscle. Shattered the clavicle and the coracoid- sorry. Talking like a medic."

"It's okay." Molly didn't remind him she was familiar with the skeletal system. "You're not upsetting me."

"I, uh. Honestly? I really thought he was going to die. It took us seven hours to get him back to base... and it was a near thing. He's bloody stubborn, I'll give him that much; survived out of willpower, is my theory. He was evacuated back to England and was in a pretty bad way for a long time, or so I heard -"

Laura, tottering on her impractical heels, appeared in the kitchen doorway. "Oh, Molly, I was wondering where you'd got to," she said. "I thought you might have gone with John without saying goodbye, and I was going to be cross about that. I keep forgetting to tell you, but that's the most amazing lipstick you're wearing- you'll need to tell me where you got it. Bill, hurry up with that champagne, will you?" All this tumbled out in cheerful inebriation. "Most of us need a top-up. It's five to midnight."

* * *

The clock struck midnight while John was still dressing Harry's wound; neither of them even noticed the incoming year. Harry was in bed asleep before John had a chance to look at his phone, which was now going off at a great rate as everyone he knew had decided to text him a Happy New Year.

Yeah, _great_. Happy New Year. Happy New Year, Bill. Happy New Year, Mike. Greg. Henry. Happy New Year… number withheld?

Who wishes you a happy new year anonymously? Clearly, some prat who's too drunk to notice they've got a withheld number. _Well, Happy New Year to you too, whoever you might be. Hope you're having a much better night of it than I am._

He had a sudden memory of last New Year's Eve. What a day _that_ had been. Irene at Battersea Power Station. The CIA targeting Mrs Hudson. Sherlock's solution to the problem. Greg Lestrade mysteriously showing up with back-up _quite a lot after_ he'd first been called.

And then Sherlock and his violin, for hours and hours. Little else all night but monosyllabic comments, and only that when grunting instead wouldn't suffice. How sad and hurt and _confused_ he'd looked about it all. His so obviously texting _sentiment_ to Irene to usher in the new year...

 _Sentiment_. Sherlock Holmes, who had so many people in his life who loved him so much, had reserved a place in his heart for a cold-hearted bitch who didn't care if he slept or ate or looked after himself. She'd used his desperate need for validation and attention as a threat against Mycroft... or so John understood it. Sherlock had never, not even at the last, been able to explain properly what had gone on between himself and Irene. Probably, John thought, he didn't even understand it himself.

It hardly mattered now. A year later, and they were both dead.

* * *

John wasn't unduly fascinated by the mysterious text. Probably it was an old colleague or something. Maybe Bill had given one of the guys his number. There was something about it that was bothering him, though.

_Happy New Year, John._

Mike and Bill and Greg and most of his phonebook had sent out a phonebook-wide happy-new-year impersonal spam message. Whoever the mysterious messenger was, they'd sent that text to him, and to him alone.

But there was enough going on without making an epic mystery of a text. John swept glass and mopped the blood off the kitchen floor, and then spent an hour trying to scrub the stains out of the living room carpet, with lacklustre results. Eventually he dozed on the made spare-room bed for a few hours, knowing he'd have his hands full when Harry woke again with a raging hangover and an attitude to match.

If he was expecting a fight on his hands, though, he was disappointed. Harry was certainly not defiant when she woke up at eight. She'd wet the bed. John patiently stripped the bedclothes and put a load of laundry on. Harry took a forty minute, shame-faced shower and eventually limped out to the sofa, where John had set her up with just about every item a hung-over person could possibly need.

"I failed again, John."

"Yeah, well, post-morteming the event won't help," he said, holding a glass of water out to her. "You tried. You failed. Try again."

"I swear to God, I don't even know how many drinks I'd had before I realised what I was doing and I called you straight away-"

"You don't need to swear to God, Harry, he's not interrogating you. So why did you buy the booze in the first place? If you didn't have it on hand you wouldn't have been tempted to -"

"I _don't remember buying it."_

John believed her. He knew that more than once she'd found herself with a bottle in her hand, and no notion of how it ever got there. On one occasion, she "came to" at a cash register while she was buying gin. On another, she'd learned she'd been out to the local pub the night before - people had seen her. She didn't remember any of it.

They'd been through this before. He didn't have any answers for her.

"Just stay out of trouble today," he said, re-dressing the wound on her foot as gently as possible. "Watch some telly. Sleep it off a bit more. I don't know. I'd suggest you do something useful, but that seems to be a lost cause..." He was startled as his phone rang. Excusing himself, he went out to the kitchen and answered it. It was Molly.

"Happy New Year," she said pleasantly. "I was just wondering if everything was all right?"

"Yes," John lied. "Yes, everything's fine. She's fine. Cut her foot on some glass, but I'm fairly sure no amputation's necessary. Not feeling the greatest this morning, though, so I'll be here sorting her out for a couple of hours, I think."

"Okay. I just… you'll let me know if I can help?"

"Yes, Molly. I'll absolutely let you know if you can help."

John had to admit himself baffled. Just about everyone in his life knew that Harry was an alcoholic. He couldn't remember the last time someone had actually offered to help him with her, though.

* * *

Harry slept on and off for most of the day. John preoccupied himself with getting the place in order (Harry was neat and organised, so this was mostly rifling the place for any hidden alcohol to dispose of) and keeping an eye on his patient. She never mentioned the conversation they'd had the night before. Probably she couldn't even remember stepping in the glass, let alone anything that happened after that. They watched a DVD together. She skipped lunch but accepted the pasta he made her as an early dinner. By this time she was back on the mend.

"You don't have to nurse me," she said as he fussed with her blanket. "I'm not sick. I'm just an idiot who drinks too much."

"Yes, well, I'm glad we're agreed on _something_."

_No, Harry. You're not an idiot. You're sick. All I've wanted you to do for fifteen years is admit that you're sick and you need to get well._

Once he was assured that Harry was all right to be left alone for the night, John left for home. He didn't go straight there, however. There was something else he had to do, and something he couldn't put off any more. The cemetery.

In all the fuss to do with Harry he'd forgotten to "visit Sherlock" for Christmas. If he was honest with himself (and John often wasn't) he hadn't thought about Sherlock as much as he'd expected to over the holiday period. But in the cold, iron-clad light of the first dusk of the year he went to his best friend's grave. He said nothing at all this time, but emptied a bottle of Glenmorangie Quarter Century over the tombstone.

_Happy New Year, Sherlock._


	10. Chapter 10

John was fine with Molly not wanting to date him. Totally fine. In fact, he was so fine about being put in the Friend Zone that he hadn't even really asked her out, had he? It was perfectly okay that she thought of him as "just John, a friend," and didn't want to date him.

But did she have to date complete _tossers_ instead?

In mid-January, along came Sean. Sean was Claire Ryan's idiot nephew. Apparently, Claire's idea of Molly "getting over" Sherlock was to set her up with this charmer, who had all of Sherlock's tact and none of his intelligence or good hygiene. Not content to be quietly stupid, Sean also had a habit of parading it about every time he opened his mouth. This all came to a head after a dating period of exactly thirteen days, when Sean made the mistake of a few ignorant remarks about the war in Afghanistan. In front of John. John, who just that week started to admit to himself that, once again, his left hand didn't always stay steady when he wanted it to, had then spent twenty minutes politely and deftly tearing him to shreds about it.

Exit Sean. And no great loss, either.

Barely two weeks later, she had a date with Daniel. Daniel, who worked in the hospital cafeteria and who'd taken Molly to a bar in Whitechapel, got sloppy drunk and threw up on her. No more dates for Daniel. And John's conscience was clear that he'd made absolutely no moves to scare _him_ away.

But March brought along the real disaster: Simon Westgate. Simon was a pharmacist, and Molly had met him professionally, somehow. He was obnoxiously tall, dark and handsome, and almost six years John's junior. Highly intelligent, witty, and able to hold a civilised conversation. And he certainly wasn't the type to get drunk and throw up on his date, because he was polite and articulate and respectful of Molly, and John hated him.

The hatred was intense and instant, and even John barely understood it. The night Molly, fawning shamelessly, brought Simon home to meet her housemate, he'd sized John up (John felt he'd been found lacking in just about every department) and then, with the most insincere smile that John had ever seen, had told him that he was pleased to meet him, and had heard a lot about him.

What the hell was Simon playing at? They weren't mates. Pretending to be mates wasn't going to happen, either. John was going to be polite to Simon to keep the peace, _and that was it._

Molly was smitten for those first few weeks. Simon this, and Simon that. Simon was so funny. Simon was always saying the most interesting things. He was so clever. Did John know that Simon had studied at King's College? John gently reminded Molly that he had _also_ studied at King's College, and neglected to mention he'd got there on a scholarship of academic merit.

Simon seemed to be making an effort to become friendly with his girlfriend's housemate, and keep him included in the conversation whenever he came over to the house. The three of them had the medical profession in common, so he started there, frequently asking John about his previous career and his current thoughts on treatments and medications. He found out, though not through John himself, that they shared an Alma Mater, and made attempts to talk about their university experiences.

John's university experiences were, "fine," "good," "all right," and "yeah not bad,", and that summed up his education, apparently. He didn't remember a single lecturer Simon mentioned, and he had no opinion on any of the classes he'd taken, or any part of university life at all, except that it was... good. Fine.

One evening, after a week of having these efforts mercilessly shot down, Simon took Molly's temporary absence from the room to strike up a different conversation. "John," he said, stroking Toby and either ignoring or not understanding the tabby's annoyed tail-flicking. "I didn't mean to tread on your territory. If I'd known -"

John, pretending to pore over an edition of Gray's Anatomy so that he didn't have to struggle through yet another awkward conversation with Simon, looked up at him. "I've got no idea what you're talking about," he said mildly.

"Yes, you do." Simon smiled, and John stiffened.

Was that - was he being a bit smug?

"It's okay," Simon went on. "I'm not going to get all possessive about this -"

_Oh, well, how big of you not to act like you own the woman._

"But I just thought I'd say... well. If I'd known you were interested in Molly, I -"

"Yeah, Simon, I'm _not_ interested in Molly." John put his book down. "Not… like that. So you can jump right in there with a clear conscience." He paused for a second. "Hang on. If you would have stayed away from Molly if you thought someone else was interested in her, it doesn't sound like you like her that much. If I -"

But no, that was a lie and Simon knew it. John _would_ stay away from a woman he was interested in if he thought she had already been spoken for. As a matter of fact, he was doing it right now.

_Shit._

* * *

Three weeks after Simon and Molly had started going out, it happened. The three were sitting having dinner at the house, prior to Molly and Simon going to the cinema. John was doing an admirable job of ignoring the sappy looks that Molly and Simon were giving one another, and deflecting Simon's polite attempts at conversation. Simon had been trying various different medical-themed topics on for size, and having no luck.

"You've not seen this movie, then, John?" he asked.

John looked up vaguely from his plate, apparently the most fascinating thing in the room. "Sorry?"

"The movie. _Baroness Thatcher_."

"Er, no. Haven't seen it. Not my kind of thing, I'm afraid."

Not Molly's either, and John knew it. Good-looking, smarmy Simon may have been as smooth as milk, but he wasn't perfect, because he was taking his date to a three and a half hour bore-a-thon.

"Simon says it's quite good," Molly ventured from where she sat on the floor, teasing Toby with a ball of scrunched-up paper.

A three and a half hour bore-a-thon that he'd _already seen._

"Okay," John said. "Have fun."

Awkward silence for a few seconds. Simon stirred. "So," he said with false cheer. "I heard on the grapevine that there might be a position coming up at Chelsea, John. I think it's clinical - mostly writing people certificates so they can get off work, from what I heard. If you're interested, I can find you the details -"

"Not looking for a job just now; thanks all the same, Simon." John's tones heavily suggested that he wasn't looking for a new friend, either.

"Well," Simon said after a pause, unperturbed, "I suppose just now isn't the best time, maybe, given the circumstances. How long have you had that tremor in your hand?"

John dropped his fork and drew his sleeve up over his left hand in self-conscious confusion.

"Simon," Molly said, as gently as usual. But John heard ice in her tone.

"Three years," he muttered. "On and off."

"Oh. Well, just a professional curiosity." Simon glanced at Molly, who by now definitely looked unamused. "I didn't mean any offence. Do you take any medication for it?"

"No, and to be honest, I'm really not looking for any recommendations. Thanks anyway." John pushed his chair out, stood up, and picked up his plate. "I'll be home later, Molly. Greg's place."

* * *

"Yeah, look, I agree. He sounds like a wanker," was Lestrade's opinion of Simon, who he'd never actually met. "Still, what can you do?"

They were sitting in the cheerful move-something-if-you-want-to-sit-down ambience of Lestrade's flat. Or rather, John was standing, and Lestrade, exhausted after a fourteen hour shift, lay stretched out on the sofa.

"What can I do? I'd quite like to punch him, if I'm honest."

"Yeah, we talked about you punching people, remember? For someone who's been arrested three times in the last couple of years, you have a remarkably clean record, but don't count on it staying that way." Lestrade glanced over at him. "Look, I know this might be a shocking suggestion, but instead of chasing away or punching all of her dates, maybe you should tell Molly how you feel about her?"

"How I feel about her?" John echoed, folding his arms. "And how is that?"

"Oh, come on. The fact that you've fancied her for at least three months is so obvious that it can probably be seen from _space_."

"Fancied her?" John laughed - or at least, he tried to. "Fancied her. Oh my God, we're not fourteen."

"I'm noticing a deflection and not a denial, John."

"Shut up, you're starting to sound like my sister. Besides, there'd be no point in… all that... even if she wasn't picking out baby names with Simon."

"Why's that?"

John coughed into his hand. "I was over at Mike Stamford's last Saturday," he said. "We were talking about... what I'm going to do with myself. He'd said he'd heard through the grapevine about a position that's coming up with MSF. Just GP stuff -" This before Lestrade could protest that an on-and-off hand tremor wasn't the greatest thing for a surgeon to have. "At a clinic. In Kabul."

"Kabul," Lestrade repeated. "Kabul as in Kabul, Afghanistan?"

"No, Kabul as in Kabul, West Yorkshire."

"Hilarious. You're not seriously thinking of going back to Afghanistan? Are you completely crazy?"

"Yes, and I don't think so." John answered promptly. "And there's no point in you trying to talk me out of applying, 'cause I sent the paperwork off yesterday."

Lestrade looked at him for a few seconds. "Well," he finally said. "Sounds like you've given it a lot of serious thought. All of three days worth of it. It's great, the way you don't rush into things."

"Greg, if I have to spend another day with nothing to do but talk to a bloody cat, I'm going to go spare."

Lestrade sighed, pressing his fingertips to his forehead wearily. "I'll be honest with you, okay? Simon might have been less than tactful about it, but it's about time _somebody_ had the nerve to mention that your hand's been playing up recently."

"Thanks."

"Why take it personally? You're not doing it on purpose. Look. I agree you need something to keep you occupied, and I don't blame you for being bored stupid. But isn't a warzone on the other side of the world a bit... drastic...?"

"What's keeping me here?"

Silence. Lestrade sat up and set his feet on the floor. "Okay. So because _one man died,_ and you're too scared to tell Molly how you feel about her, _every single other part of your life in England is pointless._ Right. Got you."

"I -"

"I mean, it's not as if London has hospitals and clinics and things to give you your daily fix of excitement, somewhere you're not on your own and dodging getting killed every day."

"Now look, I didn't mean -"

"Does Harry know about this yet?"

John fidgeted. Greg's subtext was clear: _does Harry know you're planning on abandoning her when she needs you?_ "Okay," he said. "Okay, let's not talk about this now. It's starting to get on, and I've got to head home. I'll see you later."

* * *

John returned to the flat half an hour later, finding Simon nowhere in sight and Molly watching television in her dressing gown and slippers. On seeing him, she picked up the remote and switched it off. "John -"

"It's fine."

"I told him he'd been awful about that."

"I know, I heard."

"No, I mean, I told him again after you left. I'm sorry -"

"No. _No,"_ John said. "You do enough apologising for things you think _you've_ done wrong, I don't ever want you apologising for things that _he's_ done wrong. Besides, he only asked an awkward question. That's hardly a crime."

"Even _I_ know not to ask questions like that."

Remembering what Greg had said, John wondered how many times Molly had noticed the tremor and not said anything. Still, he wasn't about to let the first part of her remark slide. "'Even you'?"

"Well, I'm not much of a conversationalist, am I." It was a statement, not a question.

"I don't think you're -"

"It's okay. I know I'm not good at that kind of thing." She got to her feet and picked up Toby, who squeaked in surprise at being roused out of a purring snooze. "I'm going to bed now… goodnight."

Abruptly, he realised it in full: she'd sat there waiting for his return, just so that she could apologise on behalf of that berk she was dating. It was only eight-thirty, and Molly shouldn't even have been _home yet,_ let alone retreating to her room.

She and Simon hadn't gone to the cinema after all, because she had asked him to leave.

* * *

"Lestrade, I think you know what this is about."

"Yes, sir."

Chief Superintendent Dawson's office: possibly Lestrade's least favourite place in the world. He'd been there a couple of times following Sherlock's death, generally getting a bollocking. He'd started to notice, though, that no matter how pissed off Dawson was, he'd not made any veiled threats about being demoted for the past few months The fact that his nose now had a distinct kink in it that hadn't been there the previous May didn't help things while said bollockings were in full swing.

"That body," Dawson said. "The one found in Hyde Park. When was that?"

"October, sir."

"And how is that investigation coming along?"

"Well, we never really had a lot to go on," Lestrade said. He had, before Sherlock's death, been known as the DI with the greatest track record at the Yard. Now, he possibly had the worst. Serial Killers: 2, Greg Lestrade: 0. And while everyone skirted around it, the evidence suggested it: he'd been such a successful DI because he had been working in collusion with someone thought to be a kidnapper and a poisoner - maybe even a serial killer. Professionally speaking, Sherlock Holmes was the disaster that just kept on giving, even nine months after his death.

"How's that?"

Lestrade had been so far in thought that it took him a couple of seconds to work out what "How's that?" referred to.

"Well, the DNA showed no matches on the database, and dental records weren't able to be retrieved. Nor were fingerprints." He started fiddling with his watch, a sure sign he was under pressure. "The witness only found the body, and that was well after he'd been killed. Our searches found nobody who saw the victim - alive or dead - nor anyone who could have been the killer. We ran a public campaign. Two re-enactments. Used CrimeWatch. Knocked on doors. Had a phone hotline set up - everything. And given that the case is now six months old, I think it's gone pretty cold by now, sir."

"No forensic evidence?"

Lestrade knew that Dawson had a very limited understanding of forensics. He used this to his advantage. "Philip Anderson was on forensics that day, and he reported a lack of usable evidence at the crime scene. Given that I'm not an expert in that field, I suggest you direct any feedback regarding the forensics of the case to him."

Dawson grunted. It was difficult to guess whether Anderson was shortly to be read the riot act, too. "And this new body," he continued ungraciously. "Highgate. When?"

"Twenty-seventh of December, sir."

"Same killer?"

"The MO was the same - or very similar." _Except for those gouged eyes._ "So we're operating under the assumption that this is the same killer."

Dawson swung slightly on his chair, contemplating the situation they were now in. Lestrade was performing badly, professionally. Coincidentally, it just was just after the death of Sherlock Holmes that this started happening. And there was nothing that Dawson could do about it, because Mycroft Holmes had discreetly informed him that if he didn't want the entire of the United Kingdom to see copies of those texts and emails he'd sent to a certain politician, he'd better be awfully nice to Detective Inspector Lestrade.

"So we have a serial killer," he said.

"We have someone who's killed two people. There needs to be three-"

"Yes, I know the terminology. But do you think the papers are going to wait for that third body before throwing  _serial killer at large_  around?"

"No, sir."

"No." Dawson could, and did, inflect enormous amounts of sarcasm into a single syllable. It flicked hard on Lestrade's nerves, even on the odd occasion when it wasn't directed at him. "It's a wonder we haven't got headlines screaming about it already. Public panic. Lots of newspapers sold. You know how this goes."

"Yes." More so than Dawson, even, who'd become the Chief Superintendent well after the Suicide Pill murders.

"Don't you think it'd be best if you hurried up and solved this before there _are_ three?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then go on and _do_ it, for God's sake."


	11. Chapter 11

The lights were on, and Molly's car was parked on the kerb.

This was not a good thing; she was supposed to be on a date. She may well have kicked Simon out the night he'd asked about John's hand tremor, but she hadn't broken it off with him altogether. (And exactly why, John thought to himself, should she? He'd had a massive overreaction that night. To a simple _question_.) Arriving home from Mike Stamford's just after seven, he found her sitting on the sofa instead.

New dress. Spangly silver shoes. Hair curled. Made up - or she had been at one point. There were black streaks around her eyes, and she probably had no idea. She looked too miserable and forlorn for it to be funny.

"Oh, God _,"_ he said, putting his wallet down and hurrying over to her. "Are you okay? What's happened?"

"Nothing terrible," she said, trying to smile. "Simon... he... he was supposed to pick me up half an hour ago, but I think something must have come up. I can't get him to answer his phone."

John's initial impulse was _I'm going to kill him,_ but he had enough sense to not say it, since it was the last thing Molly needed to hear. But he _was_ going to kill him. John had done some pretty awful things to past girlfriends, but even _he_ hadn't stood anyone up. If this was Simon's way of passive-aggressively responding to the discussion they'd had nearly _a month ago…_

"If something's come up, he could have called to tell you," he said instead, trying not to sound as angry as he really was. "Or be answering _your_ calls."

"It's not important, really," she said weakly. "I wouldn't mind very much normally, only it's because it's... well, it's my birthday, and I… it's... okay."

In all the time John had known Molly Hooper, it had never occurred to him to wonder when her birthday was. April 17th. He filed it away mentally.

… Wait. Simon had stood Molly up on her _birthday?_ He may just have upgraded his future meeting with John from "vague stern threats" to "punch in the face" after all. Lestrade would have to live with that.

"Is it? Well, happy birthday," he said pleasantly. "You should have warned me and I'd have, I don't know, been prepared. I'll be a gentleman and not ask how old you are."

Molly didn't tell him that he was the _only_ person to wish her a happy birthday this year. It had even slipped Lestrade's mind temporarily, and he hadn't forgotten a birthday of hers in years.

"I'll tell you what," John said, still upbeat. "Give me fifteen minutes for a quick shower and to put something decent on, and we'll go out. And I promise this time that I _won't_ make you sit through another stupid action movie... not while you're all dressed up." He was mentally very busy, calculating what the hell two people could do at short notice on his embarrassingly small budget. "Oh, and I should tell you - you need to reapply the war paint. You look a bit like a panda at the moment…"

She smiled foolishly, absent-mindedly rubbing her eye with one finger and smudging things further.

John, whose active duty had taught him the art of the five-minute shower, was dressed and ready to leave in the specified amount of time. Molly had decided to remove the war paint altogether, or at least the black stuff around her eyes; John reflected that being able to actually see her eyes was a big improvement. She'd also taken off her bracelet and changed her earrings. John was never going to have Sherlock's deductive skills of observation, but this one was pretty obvious. She was saying _please don't take me somewhere too fancy._

That much John understood. What he didn't understand - and what _Molly_ didn't understand - was that she was actually saying _take me to one of your stupid action movies. I'm starting to like those._

* * *

"John, you know this is a safe space."

John had a lot of conflicting opinions on Ella, and on therapy in general, but he had never viewed it as a "safe space." Even after all this time, he didn't entirely trust the woman; and really, therapy wasn't much use if you weren't prepared to talk about personal things. Although he wasn't prepared to to say that he disliked Ella herself, he disliked her so-called soothing voice, which drove him half-distracted with how insincere it sounded. He had similar feelings about her carefully composed face and languid body language. And he absolutely hated her office, which did not strike him as a place of healing, even if it _did_ smell like disinfectant.

"I want you to feel like you can trust me, and tell me anything."

 _Yeah, but I can't trust you. You gave my psychiatric history to Mycroft._ He cleared his throat. "Um. So then, um, after that, we just went home to bed. I mean… not like that. I mean in separate beds…"

This was even more painful than talking to Toby, or to Sherlock's grave. At least neither Sherlock nor Toby were capable of nodding in that annoying way, as if his awkward mumbling was the most profound thing ever said.

"And how did you feel about that?"

"About what?"

"Separate beds."

He blinked at her in confusion. "Well, of _course_ they were separate beds," he said. "I never thought that they... weren't going to be. It wasn't a date. Not romantic."

"No?"

 _Oh my God, why does everyone have to do this?_ "No. We went out because it was her birthday and her date had stood her up."

"You felt sorry for her?"

This tripped John up. Of course he felt sorry for her. She'd been stood up by her boyfriend on her birthday, how could you not...

But it hadn't been a pity date. He'd gone out with Molly because the opportunity had arisen and because he _wanted to._ And that wasn't a crime, was it? People went out all the time, and it didn't mean they rolled into bed with each other afterward. He was almost scandalised by the suggestion, and God knew he'd rolled into bed with casual acquaintances before now.

Ella was still looking at him impassively - the look that always managed to remind him of an owl. If he told her he _wanted_ to go out with Molly...

"I always feel sorry for her," he said finally. "Nothing ever seems to go right for her."

Ella shifted slightly in her seat. She had low flat shoes on, and was flipping one on and off her foot in a way that was driving John distracted. You'd think that a therapist of all people would know about tics...

"Do you think that if you pursued this with her, that this would be an example of things going right or wrong for her?" she suddenly asked him.

"I don't know. It depends on if she's interested...?"

"Do you think she is?"

"I don't know."

"Do you think you would ever ask her?"

"I don't know."

She scribbled something in her notebook, and John suddenly flashed hot with anger; obviously she was writing _obstinately deflecting direct questions_ or something. "Why not?" she asked.

John frowned. "What do you mean...?"

"Why don't you know whether you'd ever ask her?"

"I still have no idea what you're trying to say," he said. "As a matter of fact, I think you've finally managed to convolute the issue to the extent that neither of us have a clue what you're talking about now. Congratulations."

Her face did not change. It never changed, no matter what John had fired at her over the years. "What I mean is, John, it seems that you're romantically or sexually interested in Molly. And if you're interested, surely it's crossed your mind to ask her if she feels the same way? But you don't know whether you would or not. Why not?"

"I did ask her," he protested. "Well, sort of. Christmas. She said we were just friends."

"How do you feel about that?"

"I feel like we've exhausted this topic long ago, Ella."

"As always, John, you're the one directing this conversation," she said evenly. "I'm here to help you, and talk about whatever it is on your mind today."

Dear God, now she was accusing him of fixating on the issue. Ella had gone beyond being a parody of a therapist in general, and was starting to become a parody of _herself._ After some comparatively light topics - insomnia, and how he felt about Harry - the ordeal was finally over. John stood up, almost _leapt_ up, when his hour was up. Worst session yet.

"John," she said as he was putting his coat on, "I think that was our best session so far."

He stared blankly at her. "I spent an hour finding different ways to say 'I don't know'," he said. "How is that a good therapy session?"

"You're angry."

"I'm not angry, I'm _annoyed,"_ he said. "I'm always annoyed when my time is wasted. To be perfectly honest with you, Ella, the cat would have been an easier, cheaper audience, and just as helpful." _And not as determined to make this all about Molly._

"I'm not offended," she responded coolly.

"You never are."

"John," she said, "I don't think you remember… when you first came back here last June, you weren't angry at me."

He heaved a sigh. "Wasn't I?"

"No. You weren't capable of being angry, or happy, or feeling anything toward me at all. Depression numbs you. Being angry is a good sign. It means you're defrosting all that depression, getting the sensation back. Coming back to life."

"Yeah. Okay."

"Also…" this as he was on the doorstep… "you didn't even notice, did you."

"… Notice what?"

"We didn't say a word about Sherlock Holmes today. Not for the whole hour."

* * *

In over twenty years on the murder squad, Greg Lestrade had never vomited at a crime scene. Before now, that was. He'd thought he'd pretty much seen it all over the years, but it turned out that murderous psychopaths were getting more disgustingly creative than ever.

The body fished out of the Thames in the pre-dawn glow of the last day of April had been in the water a long time. Weeks, maybe even months. He'd turned to soap, and the fish had all had a go at him. Quite a go, in fact. Bits of his face were missing, and that wasn't thanks to the sick bastard who killed him. However, the gaping, fist-sized hole where the man's genitals had once been - that was _definitely_ the killer's work. And when he'd been slapped in the face with the stench and seen what an expert job had been done on the injuries, Lestrade had calmly walked over to the waterline and let his morning toast and coffee come back up.

"Sir?"

Donovan stood at his elbow, handing him a tissue. She'd been… subdued… and worked hard since she'd come back from her unofficial suspension. Hadn't told Dawson, either, apparently. If she had, Lestrade had never heard about it. Certainly there had been no more mutterings about "Freak" and there was no "attitude" to her offer of a tissue. Lestrade thought about taking it, then vomited again. She stepped back to avoid the splashback.

"Shit, sorry," he muttered, finally taking the tissue, though what good one single tissue would do was beyond him. The bottle of water that Bob Thompson had come up with from somewhere was much better received. Lestrade swished the water around in his mouth, spat, swished, spat.

"Not the prettiest sight," Thompson said. He meant well. "Gifford's on forensics, she's on her way. At the moment we're just preserving the crime scene. Do you want to sit down somewhere, sir?"

The only place to sit, besides the gravel, was about thirty feet away. Lestrade declined, then made himself approach the body again. The hell was Thompson, Donovan or anyone else going to see him put out of sorts by a dead guy.

Out of nowhere, he wondered what state of decomposition Sherlock's body was now in.

It wasn't the best timing for considerations like that, especially not with the overpowering sickly stench of rot that he just _knew_ was going to permeate his clothes. He'd done vomiting, though, and merely flinched and tried to put all speculations about Sherlock's body out of his mind. The one he had in front of him was problematic enough.

_What would Sherlock do? What would he think, if he were here? What am I LOOKING for?_

Not once had Lestrade ever seen Sherlock Holmes perturbed by the condition of a body; neither the way it looked nor, sometimes, the way it smelled. It was like he _had_ no sense of smell, and could only see the clues, not the horrible injuries and _Christ, he really does look like soap._ Lestrade supposed that this was how Sherlock got results - ignored how disgusting it all was and just looked for the clues. Just as if it _wasn't_ a real human being, someone who had once lived and breathed and felt and thought…

_And that's not helping. Shit,_ _Dawson is going to hit the roof about this one._

And then Lestrade remembered something. Three years ago, before John Watson entirely, Sherlock had "helped" solve a case where a young woman had been killed in her flat in Enfield. There had been various nonsense to do with a druggie boyfriend, a jar of mayonnaise, a dodgy painting job and a locked door, but the long and short of it was, Sherlock had been able to solve it because she'd had earrings in her bedroom, but her ears weren't pierced.

It wasn't what was there. It was what _wasn't_ there _._


	12. Chapter 12

"Okay, Toby, seriously. Pay attention. I need some help with this."

The clouds had been gathering while the Metropolitan police had been poking about the waterlogged corpse; it had now been bucketing down for a week, and was even starting to feel damp indoors. Molly was at work, but John hadn't been idle either, so she was at least going to come home to a spotlessly clean house and a hot meal. But he'd long since run out of chores and was sick of the dreary weather. There would be no venturing out to the cemetery to talk to Sherlock in such a deluge. And he wasn't going to drag himself out to talk to Ella, either. So the only one left to talk to was Toby, who was curled up purring on the sofa and seemed quite happy to listen to one of his favourite humans, regardless of the topic at hand.

"Okay. 'Molly, I was wondering if we could talk'- oh _God_ no, that sounds like I'm about to tell her it's her turn to clean the bathroom. Okay, um. 'Molly, I think I like y-' I _like_ you? What are we, ten years old? Toby, you _could_ make an effort to at least stay awake…"

Toby stretched and splayed his paws.

"'Molly, I think-' _dammit._ 'Molly, I love you'? ... What the hell is that? I'd be lucky to not get slapped for that..." He flopped down on the sofa next to Toby, defeated. Toby blinked, got up and crawled into his lap, then curled up and fell asleep again. John reluctantly stroked him.

"Don't you dare tell anyone about this," he muttered. "Not just about the ranting and raving like an idiot either."

Toby gave a brief, sleepy squeak, and John smiled because nobody could see. Bloody cat. Got round you somehow.

"What am I going to do, though?" he said. "Maybe I should just blurt it all out like it is, 'Molly, the thing is, I'm going back to Afghanistan -"

"You're _what?"_

John leapt out of his seat so abruptly that Toby fell with a particular lack of cat-like grace straight onto the floor. Molly was in the hall doorway. She still had her handbag on one arm and her keys in her hand.

"You're not meant to be home for an hour," he told her accusingly.

"We've got electricians in the lab today, and I couldn't access a lot of things and - oh, God, you're going back _where_?"

Obviously she hadn't heard the bit about him loving her, and John felt a twinge of self-reproach when he realised he was relieved about that. He'd never heard her sound so upset before. So upset… and so _angry._

"Okay, um, maybe you should sit d-"

"I don't want to sit down. I want to know why you're going back to Afghanistan. Why would you do that? You got _hurt_ last time you were there."

"Well, yes, but that time I was a soldier -"

"Isn't - don't you… like living here? Is this about Simon? You know we… haven't really seen each other since my birthday? I know you don't like him -"

"No, Molly, listen, this is _not_ about you, and I really think you -"

"John. _Please."_

Well, this was going _spectacularly_ south. It was not at all playing out like John had expected it to - and he knew why. Of course she wasn't going to be thrilled about his going back to Afghanistan; that was a given. But in all his mental planning for this moment, he never in a million years expected Molly to care _that_ much. "… Okay," he said, hands held up, as if in surrender. "Stay here."

He went to his bedroom, and was back a few seconds later with an A4 envelope in his hand. He took a deep breath.

"Six weeks ago," he said, "I applied for a job through MSF… at a clinic in Kabul. Had a bunch of interviews. Tests done."

"I knew something was going on. You've been secretive."

"I know; I'm sorry. I just thought, well, there's no point in telling you all about it if they're going to say no in the end. The letter came today. It's a yes... and, uh, so I leave in June. For three years."

John suddenly felt like he'd slapped her.

"But, um. Here's the thing," he continued, looking down at the envelope in his hands and wondering why it was shaking. "When Sherlock died, there were all these… things I hadn't said and done that I wish I had. And the day we buried him, I said I was _never_ going to do that again. Never not say something because I was worried how it would sound or that I'd look like an idiot or get pushed away.

"And for the past six months I've been _doing_ that, and I _hate_ that I've been doing that. So in tribute to Sherlock and the way he was so blunt with absolutely everybody, I would like to tell you that you are the most remarkable woman I have _ever_ had the pleasure of knowing and I don't want you to ever feel like you aren't good enough or smart enough or brave enough or beautiful enough because to me you are absolutely _perfect_ and tossers like Simon don't deserve to even breathe the same air as you and I realise that I'm not Sherlock or anything like him and you adored him so much so I'm not expecting _anything_ out of you, I just don't want to leave for that long and have you here not knowing and me not knowing and, you know, and I am going to give this to you-" He pushed the envelope into her hands. "It's my contract and my plane ticket, and Molly, if you care at all, if you don't want me to go I'll stay, all you need to do is rip that envelope up and I've made a _complete_ mess of this so I am _leaving now_ and I'm sorry that this has completely ruined your Thursday night and there's soup in the fridge all you need to do is heat it up and I would have done it already except I didn't know you'd be home early. So. Okay."

And then, with nothing but his wallet and his keys, he left, regardless of the driving rain.

* * *

"Molly kick you out, then?" was Greg Lestrade's opening question when, forty minutes later, he opened his front door to find John on the doorstep.

"No. I kind of kicked myself out," John said. "She, um. She found out about Afghanistan…"

Lestrade rolled his eyes and gestured for him to come in. "Told you she wouldn't be happy about that," he said. "Hang on, you're soaking wet. I'll get you a towel, shut up until you're not dripping water all over the floor."

John complied, and it was five minutes later when Lestrade, midway through making coffee, finally broke the silence. "Okay. I've got a feeling this is going to be good. What happened?"

"I- I'm not sure, actually. I think I told her I loved her."

Lestrade dropped the spoon in his hand. It clattered onto the sink, bounced, and ended up on the floor. He picked it up again on auto-pilot. John didn't even bother reminding him that the five second rule was _not a thing_ and that the spoon now probably had seven hundred different species of germs on it. "You _what?"_

"Well, not exactly in those words and shut _up_ , you've been dying for this to happen for weeks."

"Months," Lestrade corrected him. "How did she react?"

"I have no idea."

"Because you dropped the bomb on her and then made your escape _before she could even respond?_ Are you insane - okay, all right," he backed up, suddenly realising he was sounding a lot harsher than he intended. "Forget coffee. We need beer for this one."

* * *

Even over beer, though, John wasn't keen on discussing the matter in any detail, even though he was watching his phone like a hawk. Instead, it was talking shop.

John was officially no longer allowed in on the homicides Lestrade was dealing with. Though _officially_ he'd never been allowed in the first place, and neither had Sherlock; but very quickly, most police officers accepted that Sherlock Holmes was on the case because Inspector Lestrade had said he could be. And John Watson was rifling the appointment diaries of murder victims and searching for kidnapped children alongside uniformed officers because Sherlock Holmes said he could.

Yet another thing that had abruptly changed in John Watson's world: there were no more crime scenes. Lestrade had been given a stern reminder that case details were confidential and not to be discussed with civilians, with a strong implication that "civilians" meant "John Watson." Lestrade disregarded it; once the man was up for the gory details, keeping him out of the case seemed about as logical and sensible as keeping Sally Donovan out of it. Besides, he knew John missed not only Sherlock, but the work, and that he was gratified when he asked him for help.

"So we've now had three corpses show up with various different body parts missing," was Greg's summing up of the matter. "No witnesses, no identities. The only thing I can think of is something Sherlock pointed out once. He said if something's missing - a weapon or a body part or ID or something that's supposed to be there - it's gone for a reason. Probably because the killer doesn't want anyone to see it. So these guys… well. You know, the guy who was skinned... the killer wasn't mutilating him. He was de-identifying him."

"Tattoos?" John suggested. "Maybe scars… God, it could be anything, really. Pigmentation. Who knows."

"And the guy with no eyes?"

"Some sort of ocular condition, maybe an hereditary one?" was the doctor's immediate thought. Then, remembering to think like an average person, he shrugged. "Or I don't know. Maybe he just had distinctive coloured eyes or something. You said it was done neatly."

"Yep. Surgically, even."

"After death?"

"Yeah. Luckily for him."

"So you're probably not looking at someone who gouges people's eyes out for fun, then."

"No. Well, you get the odd sick bastard who enjoys doing that kind of thing after death. But no, it wasn't torture; we know that much. Gifford reckons the guy at Highgate probably would never have realised he'd been attacked, it would have been that quick."

"So more like an assassin."

"Never come across an assassin that gouges out eyeballs and rips off people's -"

"Yeah, well," John said before he could say it. "There was a time when neither of us had come across an assassin who was a bald, eight-foot-tall Czech bloke who suffocated people with his bare hands, either."

Lestrade shrugged. That was a good point. "And then this guy, with the…?" His gesture was vague but excruciatingly telling.

"I'd say 'circumcised', but that's not going to be very helpful to you. It would put him in a minority, but that's still a big demographic and no real clue as to who he is and where he came from. And as interesting as this all is, I'd prefer to be talking about something else than some dead guy's missing todger."

It was all light-hearted from thereon in, for what that was worth. Lestrade had to be at work the following morning, so he crashed early, leaving John set up on the sofa for a long, sleepless wait in the darkness.

Greg had been at work for an hour, and it was bordering on broad daylight, when John was awoken by a text alert. He contemplated ignoring it for a second and going back to sleep. And then he remembered. This was a text he had to see _right now._

* * *

**_John I hope you were serious about me ripping up the envelope because I did it. Please come home_ **

* * *

Molly Hooper had called in a blatantly false sick day for the first time ever. On a _Friday_ , even. She was certainly not sick - had never felt better, in fact. John found her curled up on the sofa with Toby, in an oversized t-shirt, slacks and and bare feet. Her hair was already falling out of its braid, and she'd tucked the loose ends behind her ears. There was a cup of tea at her elbow, and a romance novel in her hands. She looked up at him as he came in, but did not get up.

For a few seconds, he had no idea what to say to her.

"Um," he finally said. "Did you really rip up that envelope?"

"Yes. Did you want me to?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

Silence.

"Um..." He spoke a little more confidently. "I was wondering - would it - would it be okay if I kissed you? Would that be all right?"

She plucked Toby off her lap, put him on the floor and stood up. John held his hand out to her.

It just so happened that John had kissed a lot of people in his time, but that wasn't much help when Molly had kissed _nobody_ in quite the same way. It was awkward, it was foolish. There was more saliva than was strictly necessary. It went on for longer than she preferred, and much shorter than he did. He had no idea what to do with his hands (or rather, he knew _exactly_ what to do with his hands, but wasn't going to push his luck.) She clinked her front teeth against his for a painful second, and neither of them had had a chance to properly brush their teeth in preparation for the other's tongue exploring their back molars.

It was the most ridiculous kiss that these two grown adults had ever had, and easily the best.


	13. Chapter 13

The following morning, John visited Baker Street for the first time in over six months.

He'd felt guilty about Mrs Hudson for some time. Both Harry and Molly visited regularly, and told him that the winter hadn't been easy on Mrs H. Her arthritic hip had got worse, and she now sometimes used a cane to get about. Seemed a lot more frail, too, or so he'd heard. Some of the fire in her had died with Sherlock.

He owed her a visit. He'd tried to convince himself that it was for no other reason than in a professional sense, but he hadn't been able to even contemplate going within a mile of Baker Street before now.

After giving the cab driver the address, he'd fallen silent. Molly leaned her head against his shoulder in sympathetic silence. _She_ understood, but was smart enough not to say it. John hesitated when the taxi pulled up, and made himself get out. Then he looked up at the second-storey windows and drew a deep breath.

Molly paid the driver, then slipped her hand in John's. It had been a long time since a woman had voluntarily slipped her hand into his, and John felt a sudden, hot ache in his chest. "Come on," she said. "It'll be okay. You won't have to go upstairs."

The _street_ was bad enough. The curtains and part of Sherlock's bookshelf still visible through the windows. The smell of coffee and bacon and cinnamon from Speedy's. And that dodgy front step that took everyone by surprise at least once (Sherlock had come home one night two springs before, so deep in thought that he'd forgotten about the step altogether, slipped, and landed face-first against the closed door.) It was odd having to ring the doorbell and, John thought, Mrs Hudson took a long time in answering it; but then, of course, she hadn't been expecting visitors. On seeing who it was, her expression blossomed.

"John-!" She threw one arm around him. The other held her cane.

Mrs Hudson had kissed Sherlock many, many times. John, almost never. The first and last time she'd done it was the night Sherlock had died... until now. John wondered for a second if she was actually crying into his shoulder and what the hell he should do if she was.

"Hey," he finally said, smiling and giving her an awkward pat between the shoulders to rouse her. "Hey listen, are you going to let us in or not?"

She wasn't crying, but the expression on her face hurt John; hurt him because he knew that _he'd_ caused her much of that pain over the last few months.

And now he saw how old she looked. Despite knowing she had been born the same day Neville Chamberlain had been appointed Prime Minister, he'd always seen Mrs Hudson as "middle-aged". Now he saw her as elderly. It wasn't just the cane, either, or the fact that she'd lost a little weight and hadn't had any to spare to begin with. She had no makeup on either, though it was mid-morning and, while living at Baker Street, John had suspected she actually wore eyeliner to bed. She'd stopped dyeing her hair, which now bore inches of iron-grey regrowth that Sherlock Holmes would have recognised as corresponding to that day the previous June.

Immediately, John began mentally hatching an outrageous plan to bring Mrs Hudson back up to scratch by taking Greg Lestrade around to see her. If there was anybody who was going to get Mrs Hudson to perk up and go back to alternating between seventeen different shades of lipstick, it was that handsome silver-haired inspector from Scotland Yard who she had always had a "thing" for. A harmless thing (Greg had known about it for years, and sometimes shamelessly played it for Mrs H's sake) but a thing. John was now of the blissfully annoying opinion that everyone's problems could be more or less instantly cured by a bit of affection.

"Oh yes, love, of course, come in, come in… Molly, dear, how lovely to see you…"

Molly was a Baker Street regular and Mrs Hudson, at first, had been so overwhelmed that she barely registered she was there. Molly had slipped her hand out of John's so he could embrace Mrs Hudson; but as the older lady escorted them inside she noticed John's hand lightly come to rest on the small of Molly's back.

"Oh," she said. "Oh, John, really?"

* * *

"REALLY?!"

"Harry," John said, flinching a little and holding the phone several inches away from his ear, "you're thirty-eight years old. Use your indoor voice. And by the way, I don't care how many times you say it, 'squee' is not a word."

"Oh my God, John, I'm coming right over!"

"No, you're really not."

"Why not?"

"… Are you really asking why not?"

"It would appear that I am, yes."

"Don't you think, you know, we might want a bit of privacy for at least _part_ of today?" He paused and checked that Molly was not in earshot. "And by that, I did _not_ mean that we're over here having some sort of - that."

"It's called sex, John, and I never said you were."

"Oh, come on. I can _hear_ you smirking."

John hadn't intended for Harry to know the pleasing developments in his domestic situation for a few days more. Once the visit to Baker Street had happened, though, any notion of keeping things quiet was officially a lost cause. Mrs Hudson had apparently called half of London with the news, including Harry, who was far too carried away and excited to even be offended that she'd heard the news from John's ex-landlady and not from John or Molly themselves.

"I'm not smirking, I'm _smiling;_ they're totally different sound effects," she said. "And I'm not a prude, either -"

"No, you're definitely not."

"So if you want me to stay away so you can have amazing middle-of-the-day sex with your girlfriend on the dining room table or something, then stop being so coy and just say so. But seriously, how did all this happen?!"

"How did the amazing sex happen? It didn't."

"… _John._ You know what I meant, so stop being such a smartarse or I'll ask Molly instead."

"It's really not an exciting story, Harry. You know, we just talked and agreed and... so on."

"But… but I mean, what _happened?_ I thought you were never going to work up to it. Was it you or her?"

"Me. Well… both of us, I suppose…"

"John, I need details! Lots of details! Details in _excessive amounts!"_

"Learn to deal with disappointment," he said. "We'll come out to yours one night soon enough, and as for the details, they'd bore you to tears. And for pity's sake, calm down."

For Harry to calm down, just because she was told to, would have been completely against her nature. She was generally upbeat, when she wasn't drinking, so it wasn't a difficult leap from upbeat to squealing schoolgirl. But hey, John reflected, she might have just then reached a pitch best heard by dogs, but at least she was sober. Because she hadn't been when she'd called him the previous Wednesday. At ten in the morning.

"John, this is the most brilliant thing I've heard this year and I'm sitting here getting all teary-eyed like an idiot and it's your fault."

"No, it's _your_ fault." John bit down on the urge to jab her with the observation that if she took more responsibility for herself, she wouldn't be an alcoholic divorcee. "Anyway. Why are you getting all teary? We're _dating_ , not getting married and having six kids. And besides, this is hardly a novelty. I've had other girlfriends."

"They weren't Molly."

"No," he agreed. "No, I'll give you that. They weren't."

"She's sort of special, John."

"I know it."

"Good. Now for God's sake, _don't_ fuck this up!"

* * *

"Guess."

It was seven o'clock that evening. Sherlock had been reading; he'd had a lot of opportunity to read in the time he'd been forced to lie low. Looking up, he saw that Mycroft had just come in the door, shaken off the rain from his umbrella (this one really _was_ an umbrella) and was now standing in the middle of the room, hands in his pockets, looking rather pleased with himself.

"… Guess…?"

"You've been complaining for weeks about how you're bored with no work. All the necessary observations are available to you. I'm curious as to how you'll do with this one."

The Holmes brothers had been playing "Guess" since Sherlock was five years old; it was where the great Consulting Detective's career had begun. Even the name, which had stuck over thirty years, reflected it. A childish word for a childish game. After all, the point was not to _guess_ at all, but even gifted five-year-olds sometimes have difficulties with words like _deduce._

Sherlock's serpentine eyes flickered over his brother for several seconds. Then his expression changed. "Molly Hooper's … with… John," he blurted out. But he didn't sound triumphant. He sounded horrified.

"Good, very good. Now I want to know how you deduced that."

" _I_ want to know what's going on between Molly and John!"

"So use your brain and figure it out yourself. I'm not going to make it easy for you. That would defy the entire point of the exercise."

Another five second scan.

"Well it's all rather obvious," Sherlock said, offended. "I know that you've seen Molly this afternoon." He got up, touched Mycroft's lapel and sniffed it deeply. "Yes," he said. "You've definitely been in the pathology lab at Barts. Everyone and everything ends up smelling like that after half an hour in there. And it's somewhere nobody would be surprised at you being... and somewhere you have absolutely no chance of running into John Watson, who no doubt is still ready to punch you on sight."

Mycroft sighed.

"Then there's a tiny trace of chocolate dust on your sleeve and on the left corner of your mouth," he went on. "You and Molly had coffee, and not just that rubbish from the kitchenette on the third floor, real coffee from the cafeteria - or, at least, the closest thing to real coffee ever served at Barts. So she evidently had a lot to say, and you were curious about it: curious enough to condescend your way downstairs, buy coffee for both of you, and bring it back. That it was _you_ who did so and not Molly is perfectly clear from the crease in the back of your jacket- the lift doors closed on you, and having a coffee in each hand at the time, you had trouble extricating yourself.

"The way you're standing seems to indicate you've pinched a nerve in your back, which to my knowledge only ever happens with those horrible chairs in the lab. So you were there for long enough that you sat down, even though you were uncomfortable. Molly doesn't usually waste words, so she obviously had something important to tell you. I'm confident that you weren't speaking at length about _me_. I've not spoken to Molly in several weeks, and last time we did speak nothing of terrible importance transpired. The only other person she'd talk to you for that long about is John, because the alternative is Lestrade, and we both know she's not about to become romantically involved in someone she sees as an authority figure."

"You're so sure that the conversation revolved around her romantic feelings?"

"Yes. If she were worried about John and wanted your help, she'd have done as she did before and keep it brief and to the point. But no. She _gushed_ at you. And it would be out of character for Molly to gush about John unless the feelings she held for him were reciprocated, so …" At this point Sherlock again sniffed deeply, very close to his brother's face.

Mycroft blinked and repressed the urge to say something like _Sherlock, this is why you don't have any friends_ to him.

"Molly's perfume," Sherlock said. "Givenchy, Very Irresistible. It sells for around sixty pounds a bottle, and I can smell it on your lips. And the only two ways I can think of for a man's lips to smell like a woman's perfume are as follows: either you kissed her neck or wrists, which clearly didn't happen because the idea is utterly ridiculous…" Mycroft looked briefly offended... "Or she at one point made _you_ a _second_ cup of coffee, and this one really was a horrible instant one from the kitchenette. So you were there for quite a long time; long enough to drink two cups of coffee and come home smelling like a medical laboratory. That Molly's perfume ended up on your lips is a fairly simple deduction. The spray nozzle was the wrong way around when she tried to apply it and it got on her hands, which then transferred to the cups when she made your coffee. The fact that the scent is still so fresh even yet would also imply that the perfume is expensive, since the cheaper ones tend to fade within minutes.

"So. Molly's wearing expensive, provocatively-named perfume that she applied on a Sunday afternoon. Who for? The man she lives with, of course. There could be nobody else. She wouldn't put on perfume to see you or to go to the lab. That particular perfume is one I've never smelled on her before, therefore, it was bought in the last few weeks and, I'm going to say, was actually bought yesterday, indicating that this new turn of affairs happened yesterday or perhaps the day before. You'd have found out about it earlier if it had happened before then."

"And…?"

"'And now, for the first time in nearly a year, you've come home and humoured me by getting me to deduce something like this from very little to go on. That tells me that even if I deduced correctly, which I have, you were going to be entertained. Oh, isn't this fun, let's put Sherlock in a position where he can't win. If I fail to make the deduction, then I fail altogether. If I deduce correctly, you get to rub it in well, since you persist in some absurd, childish belief that I'm somehow jealous of John, so the only conclusion I can make is that John is now… in some sort of relationship… with Molly. Is he?"

"I don't think you're jealous of John. I think you're jealous of Molly."

"For God's sake, Mycroft, what's going on?"

Mycroft was satisfied enough to sit down. "Well done," he granted him grudgingly. "Though you did miss a few things. Yes, it's quite true and as you said. I was treated to half an hour's discussion this afternoon on the apparent many and varied virtues of John Watson. And by _discussion_ , I mean that I said absolutely nothing and she hardly paused for breath. It was quite extraordinary."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "But… but why?"

"Why what?"

"Why would they… do that…? They're Molly and _John."_ Sherlock's tone implied that this constituted an upset in the universal order of things. "Dear God, Mycroft. They're going to populate the world with their bland, unobservant, short, small-mouthed, badly-dressed, ridiculously loyal children."

"I wouldn't get carried away speculating on those matters, Sherlock. I can assure you that as of this afternoon Molly is still quite pure. Her left ear. Unmistakeable."

"Kindly don't ever, _ever_ remark on Molly's… purity… to me again."

"Oh, come now." Mycroft snickered a little childishly and mentally filed the issue away as one to annoy Sherlock with at a later date. "And you claim that you're not jealous. You're transparent, Sherlock."

Sherlock responded by taking his book and storming upstairs. He and Mycroft did not speak for the rest of the evening. But at eleven, just when Mycroft was contemplating turning in, Sherlock came back down the stairs. Still dressed. Shoes on. "Going out for a bit," he muttered, retrieving his scarf, gloves and coat. "Some new information came to light this afternoon. And before you say it, yes I'll be careful and _yes_ I'll take the bloody umbrella."

Mycroft paused. "Sherlock," he said, "is Detective Inspector Lestrade going to find another body tomorrow morning?"

"I hope so."


	14. Chapter 14

Lestrade always felt a twinge of anxiety when he was awoken by his phone. In fact, since Hayley's birth, the reaction had always been the same progression of spontaneous emotion: _Please, don't let it be one of the children... let it be someone else's child? You're a horrible person, Greg. Answer your phone, you idiot._

Fumbling around in the dark bedroom, he managed to knock his mobile phone off the dresser it had been sitting on. It skittered across the floorboards and it was a few seconds more before he was able to pick it up and answer it. "Yeah?" he muttered, forgetting to answer it with anything more professional.

"Lestrade, hey look, it's Gregson. We've found another one."

Another what? Another- _oh_. "Oh, for God's s- okay." Lestrade rubbed his eyes with one hand. "Where? And if _you've_ found it, why are you calling me at some ungodly hour of the night?"

"We're having a bit of a discussion about exactly who's supposed to deal with it."

"… Do I even want to know why?"

"You'll see soon enough. Scattered over half of London. Half your area, half mine, and six different coroner's offices are going to want what we've found."

Well, that sounded... lovely. "Are you serious…?"

"We've got the bloody measuring tapes out here to work out where to send what, you'd better come as soon as you can."

"All right, all right. I'm coming. Where are you?"

* * *

Well, at least he didn't feel in immediate danger of puking all over the crime scene this time, even if he did arrive to find half the Met on a particularly gory kind of treasure hunt. Gregson would have been pulling his hair out, if he had any to pull.

Detective Inspector Tobias Gregson of the Yard rarely directly crossed paths with Lestrade, but on the occasions they'd met, Lestrade had liked him. They were about the same age, closing in on fifty. Gregson was tall, spindly, shaven head. Keen, suspicious eyes and always, _always_ stubbled, no matter the time of day or night. He'd a wife, four kids, and a reputation for being a lot stricter with his team than Lestrade was with his. With Gregson in charge, you better have a very good excuse for taking a five minute piss break outside of your allocated break time, and God help you if he caught you on an unauthorised smoke break. Words of encouragement for his underlings were totally non-existent. They minded, though, less than you'd expect- they knew Gregson would be willing to take a bullet for any one of them, and ran his team like a totalitarian regime because he was honestly convinced it made for a more efficient, productive and safer group of cops. Bugger this being-nice nonsense if it was going to lead to the sort of stuff that everyone knew happened in _Lestrade's_ team- the petty squabbles, personal dramas, the snarking and mucking about and Lestrade's well-known inability to keep his cops in line, especially that Sergeant Donovan woman who needed to learn to shut up and do her job every now and again.

Gregson liked Lestrade and was usually civil to him, but he didn't see any merit in hiding the fact that he thought the man's leadership skills were lacking.

"You any good at jigsaw puzzles, Lestrade?" he wanted to know wryly by way of an opener. Since he was using English instead of simply grunting, he was clearly in a good mood, as they went. "Because we're having a fun time trying to find all the parts to at least one person."

The entire park was floodlit- so much so that Lestrade, who was still half asleep, squinted in the glare. At the far end, a young PC in uniform who Lestrade didn't recognise suddenly shouted "Got one!", and held his hand up like he'd just won the sort of Bingo they play in hell.

"Got one what?!" Gregson bellowed across to him.

"Testicle, sir!"

This would have broken everyone up into hysterical giggles and got this unfortunate PC teased for a good three weeks, if he'd been in Lestrade's team. Lestrade smirked, but Gregson barely blinked. "Well shut up about it, bag it and keep looking!" he looked at Lestrade and resumed his indoor voice. "Honestly, you'd think they'd never seen cadaver parts before."

"A lot of them wouldn't have," Lestrade tried to point out. " It's not every day or even every year that some sick bastard scatters body parts all over the place. Anyway.. the victim… At least one?"

"Hopefully only one. Various male parts found, no female parts."

"… Various? Bloody hell, exactly how many balls did he have?"

"We're still in the process of piecing them together. I'm afraid we'll never be able to put the whole body together or derive any information based on his kidneys, though. Screech owl swooped down and took one of those half a second before Lloyd could pick it up."

Lestrade stared. "A screech owl."

"You heard me."

"A screech owl… swooped down, and took this guy's kidney?"

The side of Gregson's mouth twitched for a second. Lestrade looked away, but it was no use; both of them burst out laughing. It was the only thing to be done. "Screech owl" was going to get them through long days and nights of paperwork and, like the other murders over the winter, probably a cold, unsolvable case


	15. Chapter 15

JUNE

"So Afghanistan is clearly right out," John remarked, "but I still think I need a job _somewhere."_

Saturday afternoon, and a beautiful day; picnic on Hampstead Heath. John hadn't meant to bring up _work_ on one of the few days he and Molly had to spend the whole time with each other. But Molly was stretched out relaxed on the picnic blanket, propped up on her hands in a way that was driving John distracted- even if she was wearing jeans and a baggy floral blouse and nothing was showing that shouldn't be showing in public. It was out of the question to follow his urge, lay down beside her and let things go from there. They were yet to reach that stage of their relationship, and "public" really wasn't a good time or place to try to get there, or even to have a conversation about it. So it was a conversation instead on the most topical but unsexy subject John could think of just then. And really, he _did_ need a job somewhere.

Molly frowned slightly, shading her eyes with her hand so she could see him better. "You needn't worry about the financial side of it," she assured him gently.

"I'm not," John responded. Molly earned good money in her job, and the financial aspect of things had not yet come up as an issue. But John still felt that, especially now that he and Molly were John-and-Molly, it really was his responsibility to contribute something financially to the household. "I'm not. Although, you know, it really isn't fair for me to live at the house for free."

"I'm your girlfriend, not your landlady," she reminded him, taking so much obvious pleasure in the word _girlfriend-_ it had been six weeks and the novelty hadn't worn off- that John smiled.

"The fact is, I'm bored at home all day without you," he told her. "What can I say, I'm a bit pathetic." He was still smiling, even though they were skirting around the obvious- there were morbid reasons why John still was unable to go anywhere near St Bartholomew's Hospital. "Don't tell Toby I said this, but he's a horrible conversationalist."

By now it was John's worst-kept secret that Toby was the exception to his I-don't-like-cats rule. He and Toby had an understanding, based on mutual adoration for Molly Hooper.

"Won't say a word to him," she promised, smiling. "And… okay, if this is what you want. I can ask around, if that helps. But John… you're quite sure…?"

John flinched. Molly hadn't finished the question, but he knew that if she had, it would have been something along the lines of _John, you're quite sure you're well enough to go back to work? Because you have a history of PTSD and nervous breakdowns. Dealing with dying people…_

It had been one year and two days since Sherlock's suicide.

"Quite sure," he smiled his way through it.

"Okay," she still looked thoughtful. Then she sat up and leaned across to squeeze his hand. "And John, if- I mean- you'd tell me if it wasn't working out? I mean, if you… um…"

"Yes." John briefly kissed her palm and smiled again, this time with much less effort. "Yes. Promise."

Her palm. Her wrist. The crook of her elbow… still no hesitant or nervous body language. And just like that, he was back to having a fantastic Saturday afternoon of it.

* * *

Lestrade, on the other hand, was _not_ having a fantastic Saturday afternoon of it. It was his first day off in ten days and Julie had hammered on his door, demanding to be let in. She had Hayley, sulky and defiant, practically by one ear. Hayley had a bag slung over her shoulder. A large one.

"What's going on?" he demanded anxiously on opening the door. "Has something happened…?"

"Yes," Julie started without preliminary. "Hayley's coming to live with you."

"She's _what_? What are you going on about…?" From day one, Julie had been clear on this one- she had custody of the children, and he had every third weekend. He'd never contested this. He'd had to admit that he wasn't really home enough to supervise his kids on a regular basis.

"Had enough, Greg. _You_ have her. You have to. She's not staying with us anymore."

Staying with _us?_ Shit. Julie had a boyfriend and he was living at the house, and how _dare_ she bring a man to live with _his_ kids?

There was going to be a row about that later. It had been only fifteen months since the final split, and some guy Julie was sleeping with had no business around the kids. Lestrade had seen far too many creeps in his career. Besides, there hadn't been a property settlement yet so it was still half _his_ house. Mental note for Greg Lestrade: appointment with solicitor.

"Hayley," Lestrade ignored his ex wife with monumental effort, "What have you done?"

Hayley looked at the floor and said nothing. With her eyes cast down, her father could see the little girl in her still- as she'd been when two or three. They'd been happy then. DS Lestrade with his reasonable workload and cute little family, with Hayley a brash, confident toddler and Matthew on the way…

"… Love…?"

"Tell him," Julie demanded grimly.

"Maybe she'd be more inclined to tell me if you weren't here breathing down her neck," Lestrade snarked at her. Hayley looked up at her father in sudden surprise; she hadn't expected that one. But Julie was already fishing through her purse. She eventually located something and held out her hand.

"These. In her handbag."

Lestrade said nothing for a few seconds, then held out his hand to see more closely. "Julie," he finally said. "Are you throwing our daughter out of the house because she has _condoms_ in her handbag? And actually, just what were you doing in her handbag to _begin_ with?"

"Greg! How could you possibly be defending her?!"

"How could you possibly be punishing her? She's fifteen, not five-"

"Oh, so I suppose that makes it all right then?"

He winced, having walked straight into that one. "No, it doesn't make it all right," he responded calmly. "I'm not much happy about- the situation- either. But Julie, come on. At least she's trying to be _responsible_ about this and the last thing she needs is to be -"

"Responsible? Oh, and I suppose the skipping class and the drinking and the sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night is your idea of her being responsible, too?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Not this again. You know that was months ago-"

"No, it _wasn't_ months ago, it _started_ months ago, it's still happening, and I'm tired of having to deal with it on my own-"

"Oh? Well maybe you should have bloody _thought of that_ before you swooped in and demanded full custody!"

"I had to! You're never _home_ , what kind of "custody" is that? Anyway, this was going on before we even split, and you weren't doing a damn thing about it then, either-!"

"Oh don't pretend you were nobly parenting on your own. I don't know exactly what you think I _do_ at work, but it's _working,_ Julie. You know, that thing that paid the mortgage and put food on the table for seventeen years? And poor, neglected you- you were just so busy being a martyr and raising the kids on your own, but you still had time to have an affair or three-"

"Oh my God, this is unbelievable. Yes. Let's blame me. This is all _my fault,_ obviously! Did it for one second occur to you that Hayley and Matthew _wanted_ to live with me, not you?"

"In that case, what are you doing here now? The kids apparently hate me and I'm never home, so surely you can't think this little arrangement of yours is best for Hayley."

Silence.

"Hayley," Lestrade said, still keeping eye contact with Julie, "go upstairs, love. Take your bag with you and put your things away. Your mother and I need to talk in private for a bit."

"Are you angry at me?" Hayley suddenly asked.

"No." Though he knew he'd be feeling a lot angrier about it if Julie wasn't quite angry enough for both of them. "Go upstairs. Please. I'll come up and get you and then we'll talk about this."

Hayley went. She hadn't the heart to tell her father that the walls in his flat weren't overly thick and that, from the spare bedroom, she was able to hear every word of the ensuing twenty minute row. Then a door slam, a car starting up and reversing with some vehemence out of the driveway. Pause. Her father's heavy tread on the stairs, and a furtive tap on the bedroom door.

Hayley Lestrade was now, like it or not, living with her Dad.

* * *

Molly was, as usual, as good as her word regarding helping John find work. It was the following Thursday when she returned home to the pair she was starting to mentally refer to as _her boys,_ to tell John that she had it on good authority that his skills were very much needed at the hospital in Hammersmith.

"So I called around," she told him. "The administrator is a man named Geoff Corrin. Spoke to him on the phone, he seemed positive and nice enough."

Molly did not mention that, previous to speaking to Geoff Corrin on the phone, she had spoken with Mycroft Holmes. He'd promised to see that nobody at Hammersmith, or anywhere else, would be able to access records of John Watson's decidedly less than spotless psychiatric history. Because it didn't matter how great a doctor John actually was- no UK hospital administrator in their right mind would employ a doctor who'd been diagnosed with PTSD, whether he'd ever actually had it or not.

"I'm afraid it's third shift, though," she continued. "At least to begin with."

"We'll still have mornings and evenings."

"Yes, I suppose. Anyway, if you're interested, I made an appointment for Monday afternoon at four o'clock, if you can see him there."

John looked down at Toby, who was sprawled out in his lap. "Sorry, mate," he told him. "You'll have to lie around doing nothing _on your own_ Monday afternoon. To be honest, I'm worried about how you'll cope. I'd recommend the services of my therapist, but unfortunately she's an idiot."

Molly, laughing, leaned over and planted a kiss on John's hair.

* * *

Lestrade may have been preoccupied just then, but he quickly heard about John's new employment prospects. He, like Molly, was a little worried about the sound of it. John may have finally reached a place where his pain over Sherlock's death was usually tolerable, but the fact of the matter was that if he hadn't had PTSD before Sherlock's death, he almost certainly had it now. And knowing that the last thing Molly wanted to do was confront John on his past history of trauma, Lestrade took it upon himself to give it to his friend straight.

"I'm not trying to be a downer," he told him on Sunday night. "I'm just telling you, if you get back into the work and you really aren't coping, don't you dare just try to blunder your way through because you think it'll be a sign of weakness to ask for help. If you can't go to Molly, come to _me,_ okay? The amount of your secrets I've got to keep is aging me before my time, but-"

"Greg, I'll be fine. I've done this before, remember?"

_Yeah, you did this before you got shot, before you developed a psychosomatic limp, before you watched your best mate kill himself by jumping off the roof of a four storey building._

"Okay," was what he said. "But you never know until you try it. When I was twenty I was in a car accident. My fault, no other drivers involved. Ended up in a ditch. I wasn't even really hurt. But the next time I got behind the wheel I froze up and panicked. Pam had to drive me around for weeks after that. It can happen. And it's normal."

"Honestly, between you and Molly, I won't have much of a chance of hiding it even if something does go… wrong…" John pointed out. "I'll be fine. Really. Looking forward to it."


	16. Chapter 16

After just seven days of flatsharing with his firstborn, Lestrade was ready to kill her.

Hayley had inherited her father's dark eyes, but the rest of her was pure Julie, including her attitude. There had been six months of "no honestly I'm fine nothing's wrong" style sulking on Julie's part before she'd finally blown up at her husband over not having her "needs met" and announcing that she'd taken matters elsewhere instead. Hayley had a similar approach to asserting herself, and it drove her father up the wall. Highly strung. Like her mother. Lestrade's first notion that she'd turned vegetarian, for example, was after she'd glowered silently over her dinner every night for a solid week and then finally, when he'd asked her if something was wrong, burst into tears.

"Well bloody hell, don't cry about it," was his reaction when she sobbed out the facts. Though he knew she wasn't really crying over being served a portion of meat. The poor kid had been through a lot in eighteen months. "There's no need to cry. I mean, I've never lived with a vegetarian before-" Lestrade had a well-developed contempt for the practice, which he was not about to share with his daughter- "but we'll manage. Gimme that." He leaned across the table to snaffle a rasher of bacon off her plate.

"Dad! That's disgusting!"

"Au contraire, Peanut," Lestrade had been calling his firstborn "Peanut" since he'd seen the first ultrasound of her, and wasn't about to stop anytime soon. "It's _delicious_. And I can't help it if I'm going to be one of those cops who inevitably has a heart attack at the end of the series for a bit of drama. Somebody's got to be."

"Au _contraire_?"

"Well our name is _Lestrade."_

"We haven't been French since the Huguenots resettled!"

Lestrade loved his children even when they were pissing him off, but he had to admit that he loved Hayley most when she was pedantically bitching about things like the Huguenot resettlement.

"It may surprise you to learn that I actually don't go back as far as the Huguenot resettlement, I can barely remember the Sixties," he protested in fake-injured tones. Then, after a pause, "so. How's Conor?"

Conor being Julie's least favourite person in the world and the reason why Hayley had condoms. He'd been over to Hayley's new abode twice now, albeit under "Hayley's Dad"'s rules.

"Fine."

"Really?"

"Yes. Why?"

"I was just curious, that's all." There was no need to rehash the conversation he'd had with Hayley on the day that she moved in- that he wasn't at all happy with her sleeping with Conor, but he was aware that if they were determined to do it he couldn't stop them and please just be sensible and not go for it in some kid's playground at 3am or something because frankly he had connections to just about every cop in London and it would just be humiliating for all. Oh yes, and it was kind of dangerous, too. Hayley had told him it wasn't actually like that- not yet- it was just in case. Not really knowing whether to believe her or not, he'd left it there. They weren't allowed in the house unsupervised, anyway, and he'd played "heavy parent" to perfection every time he'd seen Conor so far. Obviously either his "heavy parent" routine had worked so well he'd scared the kid off for good (no loss), or Conor had made it into Hayley's bad books for something recently. Lestrade didn't have the energy or inclination to find out what.

"Listen," he changed his tone, "I have the weekend after next off. Both days. Pick the best day for you and we'll go to the zoo."

The last time he'd taken Hayley to the zoo she'd been six.

"The zoo? Matthew would hate it."

"Good for Matthew then. I was thinking just us, actually. You like animals- well, you like them well enough not to eat them-" Hayley smiled- "and, I dunno, I thought it sounded like fun. We'll work out some sort of cue for me to pretend I don't know you when your friends walk past, and I promise I won't write my name and phone number on your arm in case you get lost like I did the _last_ time I took you to the zoo."

"Did you?"

"Yes. And you bloody got lost while Matthew was throwing a tantrum because the lions weren't as exciting as he'd hoped. Unfortunately, they brought you _back."_

"Ohhh now I remember. I'd made a bid for freedom and I begged them not to bring me back," Hayley shot back, but it was all in fun. "Yeah, okay. Zoo. Okay."

"Great. So tell me, Peanut, what exactly does a vegetarian eat besides steamed broccoli and tofu, which is permanently banned in this house on account of it not being a valid foodstuff?"

"Tofu."

"No."

"Tofu."

"No."

"TOFU!"

"Fine, Tofu. But when child protective services knock on the door wanting to know why I'm starving you, don't act all surprised."

"Dad, you're such an idiot."

"Yeah, well, you know what they say about apples falling from trees." She'd finished eating. He rose, picked up her plate and his. Stacked them neatly.

"Does your Mum let you drink coffee?" he suddenly asked.

"No."

"Great. Two flat whites are coming right up." He patted her shoulder as he passed her; it was the closest he'd come to hugging either of his children in years. Suddenly, he wondered what Matthew was doing and how he was coping without Hayley and with, presumably, some dickhead Julie was dating living at the house. Not that he'd really tell his Dad if something was wrong. Even less inclined than Hayley.

And that was the worrying thing.

* * *

It wasn't until his next access visit that he was able to see for himself what was going on, though. Normally Julie dropped the kids off, but she was still not "speaking to" Hayley, so preferred of all things that Matthew be picked up from the house.

Greg Lestrade was no Sherlock Holmes, but seconds after walking in the door, it was pretty obvious that Julie had, at the very least, had a houseguest the night before. And of course, he wasn't going to bring that up. Not without a lawyer present. Not without _some_ kind of referee present. It was ridiculous that he and Julie were actually fighting more now that they were divorced than they ever did while they were married.

"Matthew!" Julie hollered up the stairs. "Your Dad's here, hurry up!"

Profound silence from the second level.

"I'll get him," Lestrade muttered. Then, seeing the look on her face, "he's my son, and I used to live here, I think I can be trusted to go up the stairs on my own."

He climbed the stairs and tapped on the door of Matthew's bedroom. When there was no answer to this, or to his voice, he gently opened the door. Matthew was at his easel, and barely reacted to him as he came in.

"Hey, mate," Lestrade said. "Did you forget you were coming out with me and Hayley?"

Matthew, without taking his eyes off his painting, shook his head. "No, I didn't forget," he said. "But I need to finish this."

"Right now?"

It was a stupid question. This was _Matthew_. When he took it into his head to do something, it had to be done Right Now and he refused to engage with anything else until it was finished.

"Five minutes, Dad." Matthew still hadn't looked at him.

"Okay." Lestrade paused and looked over the painting Matthew was finishing off. It was remarkable- and very, very disturbing. A middle-aged man in a bathtub, his modesty covered by a blanket. He was struggling like hell, and that was fair enough too because beside him, a similarly-aged woman was in the process of stabbing him. Blood and water splashed about in painfully realistic detail. The woman's expression was a thing of nightmares. And in the background of the painting, in the doorway, the shadowy figure of a hollow-eyed, frightened young woman with long, dark hair.

"What's this, Matthew?"

"The Murder of Agamemnon."

"The which of _who?"_

"Agamemnon. You know about the Trojan war?"

"With the wooden horse?"

"Yeah, that one. Well after King Agamemnon came home with Cassandra," he pointed to the figure of the young girl, "his wife Clytemnestra found out that he'd sacrificed their daughter Iphigenia to the gods so they'd have favourable winds to get the fleet to Troy faster. So she murdered him in the bath." He paused. "And then she killed Cassandra, too."

"Didn't this happen thousands of years ago? That's a modern bathroom, and Clytewhatever is wearing jeans and a watch."

"The Renaissance painters used to paint ancient scenes with people who were in modern dress. For the time period, anyway."

Lestrade was trying to decide whether the fact that it was "culture" made it any less disturbing. The painting was itself great- a masterpiece, maybe. But it was still a painting- from a thirteen year old- that depicted a shocking murder.

"Well, okay. Still dumb to kill someone wearing a watch like that."

"Why?"

Matthew's "why" was legendary. Once spoken, he was not going to accept anything but a "real" answer.

"Because watches are notorious for getting water and blood and other evidence inside the face of them. Anyway. You should probably not tell me any more, Matthew, you might put me in an awkward career position." He spoke lightly, but was still uneasy. He wondered, briefly, what Sherlock would think of this. In some ways Sherlock and Matthew had been very similar. There were some things Lestrade felt he could only _not_ kill Sherlock for, because he had loads of experience not killing _Matthew_ for it.

Matthew put the brush down and turned to him for the first time. He was smiling. "Okay, I'm finished. Let's go."

"Clean up first. You look like an explosion in a paint factory."


	17. Chapter 17

_How in God's name did I used to do these shifts?_

_… Oh, I remember now. I used to nap in the utility cupboard. And on the occasional gurney. Also, I was twenty-seven._

John had completely forgotten how hectic the A&E of a major hospital could be, especially during third shift. Not traumatic, though he had pause when dealing with little children, he'd had that before… all that had happened. Just tiring. And it didn't help that approximately half of the people who streamed through the triage process didn't even need to be there.

Unfortunately, the hospital had a care policy that prohibited John from informing his patients that stepping on a nail was not a hospital matter unless you were dying of tetanus right then and there. And that perhaps the whole "put a knife in a toaster" thing was even an expression because it really was a truly dumb thing to do. Or that their sick kids would be far better off in a warm bed at home drinking orange juice, rather than spreading germs all over the waiting room at one o'clock in the morning. Official policy: report the potential abuse cases, and then mind your own business.

At least, though, the other staff were generally nice to him- and he'd not yet had a patient who'd electrocuted themselves by using a hairdryer in the bath.

Still, things had slipped into a nice little routine. Mornings and evenings with Molly, sleep in between, all night at work. A hell of a lot better than unemployment. And his hand tremor hadn't given him trouble in ages.

That was mostly because of Molly, though.

* * *

How he could possibly have overlooked Molly for two years was now beyond him. He had a vague idea that he'd dismissed her as a prude, or a kind of woman-child. And someone easily hurt. God knew he'd seen enough of that, and it had generally been thanks to Sherlock Holmes.

Well, and of course, she was capable and clever and all _that_. But he'd never noticed the way she walked in bare feet, her heels practically melting into the floor. Or the way her hair clustered in little dark whisps on the back of her neck. Or how swift and deft her fingers were. Or the graceful curve of the small of her back.

It had all been a slow process over the spring- in the best way possible. He would come home in the morning to find her up and preparing breakfast. At first, it was the bare feet. Then, as the weather warmed, she started coiling up her hair to keep it off her shoulders. And then the pyjamas had become nighties.

"John," she remarked over the table one hot morning in August, "I was thinking. It'd be nice if we slept in the same bed now."

As yet, John was still occupying the little white single-bed in the spare room- or more often than not, the living room sofa. There had been a few brief forays into, or rather onto, Molly's bed. But he had never slept there.

He paused for a second, looking across at her as if trying to work out if she really had said what he _thought_ she'd said. When she returned his gaze calmly, earnestness all the way, he cleared his throat. "Okay, yes," he agreed. "Yes, that'd be good."

"I mean… in the same bed, at the same time."

Since he worked all night and she worked all day, he had a feeling that she wasn't talking about co-sleeping.

"Yes," he agreed with nervous haste, almost before she could finish. But now she was pursing her lips and twitching her nose. This would have been adorable, except that he knew it meant she was fretting. "Is something wrong?"

Clearly _something._ He'd seen the lips-and-nose routine once or twice before, but never before seen her make confetti out of a napkin. "John… are you happy?"

"Yes, of course I'm happy," he said without hesitation. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"So… you're happy with me? There's nothing wrong with me?"

This time there was total silence for a second or two, broken by the distant growl of someone starting up a car three houses down.

"With you? _God_ no." John looked at her blankly then reached across the table to squeeze her hand. "No, absolutely, no. Why would you think something like that?"

"Because, we've been… together… for three months now, and I sort of thought we'd be sleeping together by now," she responded. She'd run out of napkin to shred, and was halving the tiny pieces of confetti with her fingertips. "And by sleeping together, I mean… not actually _sleeping_ …"

John dropped the piece of toast he'd been holding. It bounced off the table and hit the floor, where it instantly became the property of Toby.

"I'm sorry-"

"No-no-no," he headed her off, accidentally tipping his plate with one sleeve in the process. It clattered back onto the table sharply, sending Toby scattering for cover with his piece of toast. "No, don't be sorry. That's… good. No, it's great. It's _really_ great. Fantastic. Don't be sorry."

"So… do you think we could start doing that?"

"Of course. Yes. Absolutely. Not this morning, obviously. There's a lot to think about, and it's not a decision that you should make li-"

"I'm not sixteen anymore."

He hadn't been expected _that_ statement of practicality either. "True," he said. "Good point. But still, there's… well. We have to consider the what, and how, and when, and um… the possibility of any unexpected consequences. Are you taking-"

"No. You'd already know if I was."

"Then it'll have to be-"

"Yes. Do you mind that?"

"God no. But I haven't got-"

"So it won't be today."

"Sorry."

"I can wait."

"What about Saturday? We'll have all day-"

"Are you suggesting you book an appointment with me?"

"… Would it be awful of me if I did?"

* * *

John had never had to "book an appointment" with a woman before, much less one he actually lived with. It was odd, though not wholly awkward. He had to admit that there was an element of anticipation to it that he'd not really experienced in the past, and which was, in its own way, just as much fun as spontaneity.

Especially since it was so clear that Molly was unhesitant- impatient, even. Saturday was not, in her estimation, a day to be nervous or apprehensive about- no, apparently, she was looking forward to it as much as a kid looking forward to Christmas.

Only hesitantly would John admit- even to himself- that he was looking forward to unwrapping her as _his_ present. In vain did he try to remember that this was her idea; she wanted it as much as he did. Maybe more. It was Friday morning before it fully dawned on him- Molly Hooper wasn't a prude, wasn't a woman-child, wasn't an angel. She was just as sensual as he was. Just with a whole lot less experience.

And that was worrying him. If Molly was expecting a scene from a romance novel, while fireworks burst overhead, she was going to be horribly disappointed.

"Oh, I'll probably do lots of things wrong," was her rejoinder when he gently brought this up on Friday night. They were theoretically watching a DVD, but by now "watching a DVD" generally meant a hesitant, over-the-clothes fumble on the sofa, while Toby looked on in annoyance and occasionally tried to interrupt.

"You will do everything wonderfully," he told her, his voice muffled by her hair as he kissed her neck. "I was talking about me."

"Really? But I like what you're doing now…"

John decided to shut up and keep doing it.

* * *

They'd already discussed how it would happen- without a fuss or a prologue. So Molly was only slightly taken aback when, at nine on Saturday morning, she was washing up the breakfast dishes and felt John's arm snake around her waist.

"So you want to keep that appointment then?" she smiled, trying to sound like she was calm and collected and not like the bottom had just dropped out of her stomach.

"If I may." He hadn't shaved that morning, and planted a sandpaper kiss on her neck.

"Yes…" she suddenly felt embarrassed that she was dishevelled, still in her nightie and hadn't had a shower yet, but it would be silly to stop him now- and she didn't want to. She reached up to touch the side of his neck and leaned back into him slightly, then paused. "What's that-? _Oh."_

The _oh_ was so abrupt that he pulled away slightly. "Do you want me to stop?" he asked quietly.

"No… oh no, I just feel so _stupid_ that I didn't know what… that… was…"

"Listen, Molly," he murmured in her ear, his arms circling her waist again, then wandering down over her hips. "For the rest of today- for the rest of your _life-_ you are _not_ stupid, and you don't say, think or feel things that are stupid. Do you understand?"

She swallowed and nodded. "I just don't want to do something wrong…"

"You won't."

"You'll have to tell me what you- _oh."_

But this _oh_ had a totally different tone and was given for a totally different reason. He didn't clarify if she was okay- didn't need to. She gripped the side of the sink with both hands, the stainless steel cooling the fire in her palms.

"John," she murmured. "Turn me around."

"… What?"

"Turn me around… I want to see you…"

He slid his hands up to her hips, bringing the fabric of her nightdress with it, then gently turned her to face him. She clasped her hands around his neck as he lifted her up onto the benchtop. A storm of kisses, interrupted when he suddenly gasped and cupped the back of her head with both his hands.

"… What's the matter?"

" _Jesus_ , you have no idea how close you came to hitting your head on _that_ …" he tapped on the overhead cupboard behind her, then exhaled.

There was silence for a few seconds, broken by a curious little squeak as Toby wandered into the kitchen to see what was going on. He brushed against John's legs, then jumped up onto the bench beside Molly, sniffing at her elbow.

They looked at each other.

"Don't you _dare_ laugh," John told her, but he was struggling to keep a straight face himself. "Bedroom?"

"Yes- oh, I'm too heavy, John," she protested as he lifted her in his arms.

"Nope, not even close." He shifted her easily as she put her arm around his neck. "Do you seriously want me to put you down, though?"

"Yes. But on the bed."

He took her giggling up the stairs, and neither of them had any regard for the very-put-out cat they left in the kitchen.

* * *

"You're miles away. Everything okay?"

John had just returned from the bathroom and had got back into bed. Molly was sitting up, playing absently with the ends of her dishevelled hair. She was naked, and not ashamed. He rested his fingertips on the small of her back, and she took a deep breath and smiled.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, I'm… that was… I liked it."

"Oh, good," John nodded thoughtfully. He was lazily tracing a random pattern along her back with his finger, appreciating how the fine white down on her skin responded to his touch. "Good. Positive feedback's always… good… to hear."

"Have you ever had anyone say they _didn't_ like it?"

"No."

"I didn't think so."

John decided to let that go and not tell Molly it was considered bad bedroom etiquette to mention your exes, even without doing so by name.

"That's a glowing recommendation," he smiled instead. "Especially since I've never been interrupted by a cat before."

She flushed. "I'm so sorry. I forgot to tell you he can open the bedroom door."

"I think…" John leaned over and kissed the first part of her available to him, which happened to be the back of her wrist… "I'll forgive you for it. This time. And every other time."

The tracing on her back was a lot less random now. _Molly._

"Are you playing games, Dr Watson?" she teased, smiling at him.

"No idea what you're talking about, Miss Hooper." _I love you._

She lay back down beside him, resting her head against his shoulder. Her loose hair tickled at his neck. John couldn't remember the last time he'd lain with a woman… together, but not _together_. _Cuddling_ , to use a babyish word for it.

"John…"

"Yeah?"

"This is nice. I like this."

"Well then, we'll have to do it quite often, since we both agree on that." He started lazily tracing on her back with one finger again. She ran her own fingertips lightly up his arm, and brought them to rest on the livid, raised scar on his shoulder.

A shiver ran through him.

"Yeah, I know," he rested his fingertips gently on hers, as if he were about to draw her hand away. "Still, I'd hardly be an Adonis without it."

She was looking at the scar tissue with a curious lack of emotion. Certainly no admiration or revulsion. He'd half-expected one or the other, based on… the reactions of some other women.

"Does it bother you?" he asked her quietly.

She took a deep breath. "It bothers me," she said softly, "that you got hurt, yes. It bothers me that you… that you suffered. And it bothers me that you think it's ugly or that you should be ashamed of it. But if you're asking if the actual scar bothers me…" She brushed her lips against it, gently. "No."

He laid his palm gently on her face, and then on her hair, her soft brown locks flowing around his fingers like water. She rested her head against his chest.

"John?"

"Mmm?"

"Would it scare you if… I said something just now?"

He smiled. "No. I promise to be brave."

"I- I don't think I've ever felt like this about somebody before." She paused, then lifted her head to look at him earnestly. "In fact, I _know_ I haven't."

"Yeah, well, I don't think there's anything at all scary about that." He brushed a stray lock of hair away from her face. "Because I haven't either. And… just so you know… you didn't imagine this before..." He was tracing on her back again.

"I love you too, John."


	18. Chapter 18

It wasn't _overly_ unusual or a great stretch to have your girlfriend drop into work to bring you your lunch. Unless, of course, your work was the A&E of a major hospital, and your lunch break, if you had time for one at all, was two thirty on a Saturday morning.

Molly was waiting for John in the tea room. On seeing her, he stopped short in genuine surprise and, for a second, worry. His thoughts went immediately to Toby. Was there something wrong? Evidently not. She was smiling.

"Who let _you_ in here?" he teased her, giving her forehead a quick kiss to prove that he didn't really mean it. She was a little dishevelled, hastily dressed, and had evidently been asleep already that night. "Everything okay?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. But you left this in the fridge." She held up a small white paper bag. "I got up for a drink of water and when I noticed…"

John sighed, and then smiled. It was just so _like_ her. And it suddenly occurred to him that if any of his previous girlfriends had rushed out to him in the same way, just to make sure he wasn't counting on the vending machine for a meal, he would have run a mile- emotionally, anyway. Real wife-business, that.

"So you came out here in a taxi to bring me a sandwich. Wasn't worth coming out here the middle of the night for, Lolly," he said gently.

John was the first person to call her _Lolly_ since she'd been about six years old, though even yet he'd prefer thumbscrews to saying it in front of anyone else.

"Maybe not," she smiled. "But you were worth it."

"Me?"

"Yeah."

"Was I now? Well. I would hate-" he put his arms around her waist and kissed her- "to send you home-" another kiss- "without any kind of thank you, just for making sure I'm not here starving to death…"

He was cut off by a soft, insistent beep; he sighed and let go of Molly's waist, picking up the pager that was clipped to his belt. "Sorry," he muttered in much more sensible tones. "Guess that sandwich is going to have to wait a bit longer- ambulance is on its way."

Molly knew, without John telling her, that in many ways ambulance cases were the highlight of his shift. At least he'd be dealing with someone who actually needed emergency care, not trying to convince a frantic mother that her child's nagging cough was asthma, and not raging pneumonia.

"You go home, yeah?" He squeezed her hands. "Get some completely unnecessary beauty sleep. I might be home late. If I've got to stay back, I'll call you at a decent hour."

* * *

" _Mycroft_!"

Mycroft was thrown abruptly out of sleep. The Holmes estate had bedroom doors that could be locked, for extra security; he was of the habit of locking himself in at night. It was sometime in the early hours of the morning, judging from the moonlight spilling in through the bolted window. And Sherlock was in the corridor, scrabbling at the door. Mycroft fumbled at the lock and opened it, and Sherlock staggered in and slammed the door to, as if he were being pursued.

Mycroft hadn't seen him in this kind of state since the last day of Moriarty's trial.

It was too dark to really make out Sherlock's face, but that didn't matter; standing close to him in the darkness, Mycroft could hear the painful rasps of his breath, smell the sweat on him. "Sherlock, what is it? What's the matter?"

"They've arrested Liam Newell!"

The only part of Mycroft's face that moved were his pupils. "Tell me what happened."

Sherlock was now pacing up and down, hands shielded around his nose and mouth in horror. "Idiot…" he blurted out. "He was supposed to… deal with… Sebastian Moran tonight. The bloody _idiot_ didn't finish the job properly, he's been caught red-handed and they-"

"Sherlock-"

"Moran is _still alive,_ Mycroft. He was taken to Hammersmith A&E an hour ago."

Silence. Mycroft lunged for his brother's wrist.

"What did I tell you?" he snapped. "I _told_ you this was a foolish idea! I _told_ _you_ that you were taking too big a risk going after Moran like this. I told you that you _couldn't_ trust Liam Newell, or any other of those homeless addicts, to dismantle Moriarty's network for you. It's a wonder it's taken _this_ long for someone to be c-"

"Mycroft, just shut up and help me! _Please!"_

Mycroft's grip eased on Sherlock's wrist and slid down to his hand. Cold. Shaking- badly.

Long ago, Mycroft had squared with himself that he was bound to care about Sherlock every now and again, even though caring was not an advantage. He'd even accepted that he was allowed to worry about him. But for a second, Mycroft thought that he, too, was worried not just about his little brother, but about the safety and wellbeing of one John Watson. "Tell me everything."

"John's working at the hospital tonight. It would be totally unlike him to not involve himself in an attempted homicide case. What do you suppose is going to happen when he and Moran cross paths…? Moran would have to be an _idiot_ not to connect the attack with the odd fact that so many of Moriarty's network were killed in the same way. If he even suspects that John might know anything about it, or about me, he'll… he… do you know what happens when you run an online search for Dr John Watson? Seven hundred and twelve hits, and almost all of them mention me."

Mycroft switched the light on and darted over to the wardrobe, pulling out the first suit that came to hand. He shed his pyjamas with exactly zero shame- this was not the time to be coy- and started yanking on his trousers. "What on earth do you expect me to do about this?" He fumbled to put his shirt on. "Kill Moran myself?"

For a second, Sherlock looked as if he might ask Mycroft to. He sank down on the bed and put his head in his hands; the enormity of what had just happened- or rather, what hadn't- seemed to be hitting him in waves. "I was so close," he blurted. "I was so close to finishing this, Mycroft. Moran was the last. _The very last._ "

"The last? Rubbish. What about Stevens?"

"What _about_ Stevens?" Sherlock's tones were thick with contempt. "Forget him. He's an idiot who couldn't possibly function without Moriarty leading him around by the nose- or Moran, for that matter. I don't care about Stevens, I care about _Newell._ The second the police put any pressure on him, he's going to blurt out everything he knows-" he got up and began pacing again.

"Sherlock, I need you to listen to me very carefully." Mycroft, shirt still untucked, took Sherlock's arms and gave him a brief, sharp shake. "Have you had any contact with John at all recently?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"None? No quaint little anonymous texts, no scrambled emails, no hang-up calls to his phone, or to the house? Nothing at _all_?"

Another insistent headshake. "Not since… that text… New Year. Nothing, Mycroft."

"And when did you last see Molly?" Mycroft was struggling with his jacket.

"Three weeks ago."

"At the house?"

"No, here. I've only been to Molly's house once, and that was last year-"

"And John? When did you last see him?"

"At a distance… at a bus station in Shepherd's Bush, a week ago-"

Mycroft heard a sharp crack, and felt the sting in his right hand, before he even realised that he'd backhanded his brother across the face. "Just _what_ is your obsession with following John Watson around? I've warned you a thousand times against that stalking nonsense!"

"I've been _careful,_ Mycroft! I'd have known if I was being followed…"

Mycroft exhaled, his eyes darting back and forth as he thought at lightning speed. His hand was still stinging, and there was a faint red mark on Sherlock's right cheek; both accused him. Panicking was not helpful. It was not useful. He took another deep breath.

"All right, listen to me. Go to your room. Lock yourself in, draw the curtains down, and pack immediately. Don't open the door, don't answer the phone. Not even to me."

"But John-"

"The only way that you can help John is to go _nowhere near him._ Or Molly, for that matter."

"We can warn Molly-"

"No, we can't. No calls, no emails, no contact. At all. Do you understand? Give Moran no reason to believe targeting them will draw you out. Go and pack. Now."

But Sherlock was standing stock still, insistent. "Where am I going?"

"Somewhere Moran won't even be looking for you. I'll join you, as soon as I can find an excuse to leave London- just do as I say, and quickly. I'm going out. I may be some time."

* * *

"He won't die," John explained to Lestrade in a low voice. It was just past six in the morning. John had just clocked off, and they were standing in the corridor outside of Moran's room.

"He won't talk, either," Lestrade, ever his non-morning-person self, was most unhappy to be dragged out of bed in the middle of the night. Even more unhappy to find that Captain Sebastian Moran, his only lead in the year-old case, was being decidedly unhelpful toward the police.

"He's in shock. It might take him a few hours more to process what really happened," John explained. "And it's possible, with the trauma… he may never really remember what happened to him. An event like that can shatter your memory."

"Great."

"Still, in a medical sense he'll be all right in time. And anyway, does it matter so much if he can't or won't remember what happened? Someone told me you'd caught a guy in the act."

"Bloody hell. Could you possibly get your co-workers to shut up about a high profile case? That kind of thing could prejudice a trial." Lestrade sighed. "Yeah, look. I can't go blabbing out all the details, but Moran was attacked under the railway arches near Ravenscourt Park."

"What was he doing there, at two in the morning?"

"Buggered if we know. That's why I'm so impressed with this not-telling-you business. He says this bloke attacked him for no reason. Our suspect's taken a swing at him with the pipe and missed by a mile- if you assume he was going for the throat, like the others."

He'd certainly missed. John, who'd spent some time trying to repair Moran's shattered clavicle as best he could, wouldn't have called it "by a mile." As a matter of fact, his professional opinion was that his patient was lucky to be alive. With the blow from the pipe an inch north, he'd probably have quickly become the newest mangled corpse.

"So of course, Moran's started screeching like a banshee being put through a mincer, and there was a patrol copper on site in half a minute."

John, tired as he was, was still alert enough to frown at this. "Even half a minute is a good head start in the dark," he pointed out. "Suspect didn't run?"

"He was so bloody drunk I'm surprised he could _walk_. We're still waiting for him to dry up so we can get some sense out of him- no point in interviewing him when he's in a state. He won't make sense, and even if he does, it'd be inadmissable."

"Who is he?"

"Name's Liam Newell. He's a nobody. Forty-three, originally from Lambeth, now of no fixed address."

John frowned again, deep in thought for a few seconds. His lips were moving slightly, as he did when he was trying to really reason something out.

"You're thinking what _I'm_ thinking, aren't you?" Lestrade offered.

"If you're thinking, 'how the bloody hell could a pitiful alcoholic have killed four times before and never left the slightest clue, and now suddenly get caught, drunk and red-handed?' then yes, I am…" John suddenly turned as, in Moran's room behind, an IV started bleeping. "Hang on," he told Lestrade. "Let me just go and fix that."

Moran lay with both arms immobilised in slings, and bandages up to his neck. John assumed he was asleep- he had been given a heavy dose of painkillers not long before- but the injured man stirred as he approached the IV. John gave him a wry smile. "Good morning," he said. "No, I don't usually muck around with these things…" he was resetting the pump… "but it'll be a while before a nurse gets 'round to it, and the beeping is going to send you spare. You have to promise not to sue me if I accidentally kill you, okay?"

Moran smiled weakly. "You're the doctor," he mumbled. "The one who saved me."

John tried to smile in return, but didn't quite make it there. He didn't take professional compliments easily. Not anymore. "Wasn't just me," he responded. "You were the star of the show, and had about six of us busy for a bit. But you'll be sorted out in time. Enjoy the stay."

"All the same," Moran insisted. "The nurse was telling me I might have died."

"Well, that's a bit of an exaggeration-"

"Thank you, doctor. For patching me up. What's your name?"

"… John Watson. Hi. You're welcome." Even in a professional capacity, John rarely used the appellation _Doctor._ He cleared his throat in some embarrassment. "Anyway, um. This saline's nearly run out, I'll go and get someone in to fix it. And don't be tempted by the fine cuisine served this morning, you're on nil by mouth today, okay?"

"I'll remember. Thank you."

More than one "you're welcome" in the same conversation was, John felt, bordering on excessive. He nodded instead, and went to leave.

"Afghanistan, or Iraq?"

John was halfway to the door; he stopped dead, took a deep breath, and turned on one heel. Moran was looking at him so guilelessly that he wondered if he'd _imagined…_

"Sorry…" he shook his head slightly. "What did you say?"

Moran smiled again, a little triumphantly this time. "I'm a military man myself, Dr Watson," he told him. "Can pick a soldier a mile away, with posture like that. Did you serve in Afghanistan, or Iraq?"

"How did you know I'd served abroad?"

"So you have?"

"Yes. Afghanistan."

"I was in Kosovo," Moran volunteered. "I thought, well, perhaps I'd have heard of you before if it'd been in the Balkans, and they'd be more likely to send a doctor further afield than Northern Ireland. Just a guess. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be-"

"It's fine."

"Been home long?"

"Three years."

"Five and a half, for me. We should talk, Dr Watson."

John was still standing in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do. Finally, he gave a grim sort of smile. "Well, perhaps we should. But there are things I'd rather forget than talk about, Captain Moran."


	19. Chapter 19

If there was ever a remark that drove DI Lestrade up the wall, it was _no_ followed by _comment._

By nine-thirty that morning, Liam Newell was considered sober enough to be interviewed. But while it might have been true that he'd sobered up, that didn't mean he was going to be co-operative. _No comment_ was the order of the day- though, oddly, he'd rejected the offer of legal help.

There was something else that was bothering Lestrade a little as he sat across the interview table from his suspect. John Watson had immediately come to the conclusion that Newell was an alcoholic; the problem was, he neither smelled nor looked like one.

Harriet Watson didn't always look or smell like an alcoholic.

Still, Harry wasn't living rough, either, as Newell had been prior to his arrest. He had all the trademarks of a homeless man: unshaven, wearing six layers of clothes, unwashed. The smell emanating from across the table was of rancid body odour and stale tobacco. There was no hint of alcohol.

Lestrade had interviewed dozens of drunks in his time. They _always_ smelled of alcohol. They sweated it from every pore.

"Okay." Lestrade flicked his pen in a blatant attempt to irritate his suspect into talking, and not at all minding if he also irritated Sally Donovan, who was seated beside him. "Right. So let's go back to square one. Your full name?"

"I've told you this already, Inspector." This in quiet, respectful tones. Newell might have been impoverished and homeless, but when he opened his mouth, he immediately gave Lestrade the impression that it had not always been so for him. The alcohol, probably. Marriage breakup, perhaps. Mental illness. Maybe all three. He'd once been a respectable man, clearly- and probably quite handsome, under that layer of hair and dirt.

"Yeah, I know you did. But I have this problem with my memory- it's not good," Lestrade told him. "I forget things in a hurry. Again, please."

Newell sighed. "My name is William Robert Newell."

"And your address?"

"I don't have one, I already told you. I spent the night before last at the Stoning Boarding House in Chivers Street."

"That's a bit of a commute from Ravenscourt Park," Lestrade remarked casually. "I don't expect you to remember, because you were off your head at the time, but that's where we found you. So what were you doing there, exactly?"

"No comment."

Lestrade flicked his pen again. _Click-click. Click. Click-click._ "Okay. _How_ did you get there? Did you walk? Take a cab?"

"No comment."

"Well, you got there, anyway. I'm just going to imagine that you teleported…" Lestrade wrote _teleported to Ravenscourt Park_ in his notebook. "So, Moran says you met at the Legion Pub beforehand. He says he bought you a drink and you chatted for a bit. Is that right?"

"No comment."

"Did you follow him out of the Legion last night?" Donovan tried.

"No comment."

"Was there something he said, something he did that made you afraid?" she asked him, in possibly the most gentle tone Lestrade had ever heard from her. "Self-defence isn't illegal, Liam. You wouldn't be punished for that. If you hurt him in self-defence, though, we need to know so that we can help you."

Lestrade gave Donovan an approving glance. Generally, when she and Lestrade played Good-Cop-Bad-Cop, her role was _Bad Cop._ There was something reasonable and paternal and earthy about Lestrade that a lot of people responded positively to. On occasion, though, they would tacitly switch places. Some suspects responded better to a kind word from a pretty woman.

"No comment."

Not for the first or last time, Lestrade longed to have Sherlock Holmes on hand. He raised suspects' hackles, wasn't always strictly by-the-book and had once had a chair thrown at him, but so far as Lestrade's memory went, he'd never had a suspect stonewall him with _no comment._ Not for long, anyway.

"Newell," he said, "it's over. You got caught, and Moran isn't going to die. You can't ignore that with _no comment._ 'Cause I can assure you, if this goes to trial, and it will, the judge is going to have plenty of comments for you. Unless you start helping us."

"… No comment."

"Maybe you'll be able to think up some comments if we leave you to it for a bit," Lestrade sighed and stood up. "Interview suspended at 9:43 am. Suspect is being returned to a holding cell. Interview will resume at midday."

* * *

At half-past eleven that morning, Sherlock heard his brother finally return to the house. He waited for a minute or two from behind his locked bedroom door; when he'd decided that Mycroft had no intentions of coming upstairs to speak with him, he contravened his orders by unlocking the door and going down to him. He found Mycroft sitting in his armchair by the French windows. He was disheveled; or rather, as disheveled as Mycroft could look in a three-piece suit. He was leaning against the back of the chair- something he rarely did- and smoking a cigarette.

"Ah, the famous Holmes coping mechanism." Sherlock held his hand out, and Mycroft passed him a fresh cigarette and a lighter. He sparked up, put the lighter back down on the side table, and moved over to the window. They smoked in silence for a minute or two.

"What's happening?" Sherlock finally asked.

Mycroft pulled some papers out of his left-hand breast pocket and passed them to his brother. Sherlock looked them over for a few seconds.

"This is my new identity, I suppose."

"Yes. Memorise that information."

"'Christian Yearsley'. What a ridiculous name." Sherlock, unaware of the irony of his comment, noted that his new date of birth was two and a half years after his real one, and couldn't help smiling for a brief second. Besides new documents- false passport, false birth certificate- there was also a plane ticket. He looked it over. "Are you serious, Mycroft?" he wanted to know. "You're sending me to-"

"You're fortunate that I managed to talk my way out of New York," Mycroft said flatly. "I don't want to hear any complaining about it, Sherlock. The plane leaves at eight o'clock. I'll accompany you to the airport and make sure you're on it."

"But you're not coming with me?"

Mycroft noted the twinge of anxiety in Sherlock's voice, and felt its answer in his own chest. "I'll be a few days behind you- my own flight leaves on Thursday morning. I can't leave London too abruptly; it would look suspicious. On the back of that piece of paper you'll find a list of coded instructions as to what to do once you arrive. You are to follow them to the letter, and then irrevocably destroy them. Are you packed?"

"Yes." Sherlock flopped down restlessly on the sofa, fidgeting for a few seconds and, Mycroft noted, clearly playing Bach's _Passion-Johannes_ in the privacy of his own head. "How long, Mycroft?" he asked at length.

"I'm sorry?"

"How long is _this_ going to go for? I'd nearly finished it..."

Mycroft sighed. "I imagine it will finish when it's safe to target Moran again."

"And when will that be?"

"When do _you_ think?"

Sherlock thought this over in silence, and did not return the answer: _Not for years._ It would be years before he could go back to Baker Street, and Mrs Hudson, and taking cases and… back to John.

Though there was Molly to think about, now. Or at least, John was thinking about _her_. Because he thought his best friend was dead, and had shut the Baker Street chapter of his own life. Probably, for good.

Still, it wasn't helpful to reflect on those things. "What happened with Newell?" Sherlock asked instead, resigning himself to the problems at hand.

A pause. Mycroft was chewing the inside of his left cheek; a sure sign that he was agitated. He lit up another cigarette without responding. Sherlock stamped his foot impatiently.

" _Mycroft_. It's _my_ life at stake, the least you might do is discuss my fate with me. Is Newell talking?"

"No," Mycroft finally said in a low voice. "And you needn't worry that he's going to do so."

* * *

It was mid-afternoon when John was roused out of what had been a rather heavy and pleasant sleep. At first, he didn't know what had woken him; Toby was nowhere to be seen, and Molly seemed not to be home yet. After a few seconds, it was repeated. A heavy, urgent knock on the door.

Probably not the Red Cross making a collection.

"Yeah, okay, I'm coming," he called down the stairs, trying not to sound cross about it as there was a third round of knocking. "We do have a doorbell," he muttered in much lower tones as he reached the foot of the stairs. It was only a few steps more to the doorway; he yanked it open more abruptly than he intended and found Greg Lestrade on the step.

The doctor's first thought was that Lestrade was ill, or injured. He was leaning on the doorframe with one hand, and John hadn't seen him look that pale and drawn since the day he'd had to tell him-

"Are you okay?" he demanded anxiously. "What's happened?"

"Liam Newell committed suicide in his cell."

"… Oh, _shit_." John took him by the arm and drew him into the hall. "Right. Come in."

"We should never have left him there that long, John," Lestrade blurted out as John led him into the living room. " _Never_ for that long. We should have _realised_ he was a suicide risk-"

"Sit down. I'm going to make you some coffee, okay?"

Lestrade sat down distractedly, putting his face in his hands for a second. "We don't even know what he did it with… Halloran went in and found it all sprayed up the _walls_ -"

"Greg, shut up. Talking like that is only going to get you more worked up-"

"No, I'm _okay_ , John," Lestrade overrode him, almost aggressively. "Stop carrying on, I'm okay. Poor bloody Halloran's not."

"I can imagine." John Watson had an intimate acquaintance with the sight of "it" sprayed up a wall; it was plenty gruesome for a soldier and a doctor, let alone Lestrade's youngest and most wide-eyed DC. "Have they offered him help? Counselling?"

"I don't know. I suppose so. It's procedure whenever a suspect dies in custody."

"Did they offer any to you?"

"I'm, uh, suspended with full pay until they investigate whether we were remiss…" was Lestrade's response- one that didn't in the least answer John's question. He seemed about to say more when he was interrupted by Toby jumping into his lap, purring furiously. Lestrade liked cats in general, and Toby in particular; he'd once commented that any animal that seemed to understand sarcasm was all right by him. He raised no objection to the tabby's attention, and absently stroked his head.

"Okay. How long are you suspended for?"

"I don't know. They sent me home, but Hayley's there and right now I can't…" he trailed off. "Not yet. Um. I have to go back in and make a statement…"

"Not today. You're in no fit condition to give any kind of accurate statement. I'll sign anything I need to saying so. You're in shock."

"I'm _not_ in shock," Lestrade protested.

"You bloody well are. Now shut up and drink your coffee."

Lestrade had barely taken a sip, however, before he made a brief, choking sound; John glanced over and saw that he was laughing. All of John's medical instincts rose up against that laugh.

" _Stop_ it," he said immediately.

"Oh, _hell_ , John. This is the _second_ person who's committed suicide on my watch…"

John grit his teeth, but only for a second. It had never before occurred to him, in all the days and nights of feeling that he was to blame for Sherlock's suicide, that Lestrade felt the same way. "And neither of those suicides were your fault."

"Right. Okay. Do you think you could tell that to Dawson for me?"

"You don't want me to," John returned. Just for a second, he looked like he was about to smile. "I think we both know I'm not Dawson's favourite person."

Lestrade laughed again, but this was his usual laugh, and not the high-pitched hysteria John had heard from him a minute before. "Ah, yes. Well. I think he might hate me more than he hates you, now."

"I don't see why that should be," John pointed out. "After being on your case for so long, you've finally caught him a serial killer."

Lestrade looked at him.

"Sort of," he clarified. "Look. Newell was found red-handed. Open and shut case. That he chose to kill himself had _nothing_ to do with you. He'd have done the same thing on Gregson's watch."

Lestrade sipped his coffee in silence. He could think of no way of telling John that he was now starting to suspect that Newell was innocent, without John's next threat being a mental health evaluation or something. Besides, the man was right. Newell was found with the bloodstained pipe in his hands- no jury in the world would have acquitted him, and none needed to. He was dead. Dead people had a tendency to stay that way, regardless of how you felt about them.

* * *

Five days later, Molly rang Mycroft's phone and found the number had been disconnected.

This in and of itself was of no great concern- phones returned disconnected messages for all kinds of reasons. She rang the house number: disconnected. She rang Sherlock's phone. Disconnected.

Something terrible had happened.

It was a Sunday afternoon; John had gone out to see Mrs Hudson. Generally, he would take Molly with him; when he didn't ask her to come along, she knew better than to volunteer herself. Some visits were too difficult for that. They were probably going to the cemetery.

At least, Molly reflected as she went to find her shoes, this meant she didn't have to lie to John about where she was going. She knew he would never ask her. He generally came home from the cemetery very quiet and distracted.

Silently, the timid woman searched every room of the Diogenes Club that she was permitted into. She ignored the stares- many disapproving- of the Club's denizens. It was all for nothing; Mycroft was not there, and she couldn't ask where he was. She had no idea where he worked, or of any other place he might frequent. Except, obviously, his home.

She went out to Linwood, the Holmes estate. The Jacobean mansion stood silently glowering in the last vestiges of daylight, like a grim old soldier on sentry duty, watchful and still. The gates were padlocked, so that she could not get any closer than the front drive; but even there it was clear that the house was shut up, the lights were off and the curtains were drawn.

Mycroft and his brother had vanished.

**_The End_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sequel to After the Fall is Come Forth, Lazarus. You can find it from my profile. x


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